IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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1.0 


I.I 


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liS       2.0 


1.8 


1.25      1.4 

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6"     — 

► 

Photographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MS80 

(716)  S72-4503 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Instivuta  for  Historical  IVIicroreproductions  /  Inetitut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


\ 


\ 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
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reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usuci  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


n 


D 


D 

0 


n 


n 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endOi<imag6e 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaur^e  et/ou  peilicuide 


I      I    Cover  title  missing/ 


Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 

Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  geographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


I      I   Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material/ 
Relid  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
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II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajoutdes 
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mais,  lorsque  cela  itait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  fiim^es. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppldmentaires; 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  df  se  procurer.  Les  details 
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point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mdthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiqu^s  ci-dessous. 


Thee 
toth( 


I      I   Coloured  pages/ 


Pages  de  coLleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommag6es 

Pages  restored  and/oi 

Pages  restaur6es  et/ou  pellicul6es 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxe< 
Pages  d6color6es.  tachetdes  ou  piqu^es 


I      I    Pages  damaged/ 

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I      I    Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 


□    Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d^tachdes 

rT~U  Showthrough/ 
LJ^   Tr 


Thai 
possi 
of  thi 
filmii 


Origii 
begir 
the  li 
sion, 
othei 
first  I 
sion, 
or  illi 


I  ransparence 


r~pi    Quality  of  print  varies/ 


Quality  in6gale  de  I'impression 

Includes  suppiemen^cary  material/ 
Comprend  du  materiel  suppldmentaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  6dit'ion  disponible 


B" 


Pages  wholly  cr  partially  obscured  by  errata 
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Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure, 
etc.,  ont  6t6  fiim^es  d  nouveau  de  fapon  d 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


The  I 
shall 
TINU 
whici 

Mapa 

differ 

entire 

begir 

right 

requi 

meth 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqui  ci-dessous. 


10X 

14X 

18X 

22X 

26X 

30X 

V 

12X 

16X 

20X 

24X 

28X 

32X 

The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Metropolitan  Toronto  Library 
Litesature  Department 

The  Images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  In  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


L'exemplaire  fiimA  fut  rep  dduit  grAce  A  la 
gAnArosIti  de: 

IMetropolitan  Toronto  Library 
Literature  Department 

Les  Images  suivantes  ont  Atd  reprodultes  avec  le 
plus  grand  soln,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  at 
de  la  nettetA  de  Texempialre  film*,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  In  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  Illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  Illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  Illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverturs  en 
papier  est  imprlmte  sont  fllmte  en  commengant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'Impression  ou  d'lllustratlon,  solt  par  le  second 
plat,  salon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  fllmte  en  commenpant  par  la 
premlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'Impression  ou  d'lllustratlon  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — ^^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Un  des  symboles  sulvants  apparaftra  sur  la 
dernlAre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbols  — ^  signifle  "A  SUiVRE",  le 
symbols  V  signifle  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  Illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  Atre 
filmAs  A  des  taux  de  reduction  diffArents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  Atre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clichA,  II  est  fllmA  A  psrtir 
de  I'angle  supArieur  gauche,  de  gauche  A  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nAcessalre.  Les  diagrammes  sulvants 
illustrent  la  mAthode. 


1  2  3 


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2 

3 

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METROPCLiTAN 

TORONTO 

LIBRARY 


Literature 


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LIFl 


Wash 
1783.  h 
midway  1 
New  Yoi 
the  eleve 
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PEB  -  5  W79 


THE 
LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON   IRVING. 


i 


Washington  Irving  first  saw  the  light  on  April  3, 
1783.  His  birthplace  was  a  house  on  William  Street, 
niiflway  between  Fulton  and  John  Streets,  in  the  city  of 
New  York.  He  was  the  eighth  son  and  the  youngest  of 
the  eleven  children  of  William  and  Sarah  Sanders  Irving. 
He  was  baptized  by  a  Presbyterian  minister  in  the  chapel 
of  St.  George,  in  Beekraan  Street,  soon  after  General 
Washington  and  his  array  had  entered  the  city.  "  Wash- 
ington's work  is  ended,"  said  Mrs.  Irving,  "  and  the  child 
shall  be  named  after  him." 

Washington  himself  gave  the  infant  his  blessing ;  for 
when  the  seat  of  the  new  government  was  established  in 
New  York  the  first  President  happened  to  step  into  a  shop, 
and  a  Scotch  servant-maid  of  the  family  saw  him  and  fol- 
lowed him  in,  saying,  "Please,  your  honor,  here  is  a  bairn 
was  named  after  you."  And  the  grave  and  stately  Wash- 
ington is  said  to  have  placed  his  hands  on  the  head  of  his 
future  biographer  with  a  paternal  benediction. 

Washington  Irving's  fatlier  was  a  Scotchman,  descended 
from  William  De  Irwyn,  the  secretary  and  armor-bearer  of 
Robert  Bruce.  He  was  a  man  of  high  character,  a  strict 
Presbyterian,  stern  and  sedate,  in  spite  of  his  early  adven- 
tures at  sea.  During  the  French  war,  while  serving  in  an 
armed  packet  plying  between  Falmouth  and  New  York,  he 


j  THF  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  I  It  VINO. 

met  the  b^a  :tiful  Sarah  Sanders,  the  gnin(hlaujrl,ter  of 
an  English  curate,  and  married  lier.  Two  years  later  lie 
settled  in  New  York.  The  mother  of  Washington  Irving 
was  of  a  more  ardent  nature,  and  sympathized  moie  with 
her  children  in  their  youthful  pletisures.  She  had  been 
brought  up  an  Episcopalian;  and  though  she  attended 
church  with  her  husband,  she  was  never  in  full  sympathy 
with  his  rigid  views.  Washington,  at  a  very  early  age, 
was  confirmed  stealthily  in  Trinity  Church ;  and  all  the 
children,  with  one  exception,  left  their  father's  communion 
and  became  Episcopalians.  This  might  have  been  expected 
when  we  read  that  William  Irving  compelled  them  regu- 
larly every  week  to  devote  one  of  their  two  half-holidays 
to  the  study  of  the  catechism ;  and  the  only  diversion  that 
he  permitted  on  Sunday,  aside  from  attendance  at  church 
morning  and  afternoon,  with  a  lecture  in  the  evening,  was 
the  reading  of  "  Pilgrim's  Progress." 

In  1784  the  Irvings  moved  into  a  quaint  old  house  with 
the  gable  end  and  attic  window  facing  the  stie(;t.  New 
York  at  that  time  was  a  small  town,  the  northernmost 
limit  of  which  was  below  the  present  City  Hall.  The 
Dutch  element  still  predominated,  and  the  Dutch  pictur- 
esqueness  was  to  be  seen  in  the  old-fashioned  brick  houses 
and  the  water-pumps  in  the  middle  of  the  streets.  But  the 
inhabitants  were  gay  and  hospitable,  and  there  were  amuse- 
ments for  lively  boys.  The  child  is  father  of  the  man,  and 
the  town  is  mother  of  the  city.  Even  then  the  mercurial, 
pleasure-loving,  worldly,  extravagant  metropolis  was  shad- 
owed forth  in  the  half-burnt  Dutch-English  seaport  clus- 
tering around  the  lower  end  of  Manhattan  !  A  theatre  had 
been  established  a  third  of  a  century  before  in  John  Street, 
and  here  Washington  Irving  first  acquired  his  liking  for 
dramatic  performances.  He  was  full  of  vivacity,  fun,  and 
innocent  mischief.    His  love  of  drollery  and  disinclination 


to  religi( 
mother  > 
and  excl 

The  ft 
the  even 
Paulding 
away  to 
in  time  t 
his  room, 
back  alle 
the  "  af  L( 

lie  nu 
schools,  1 
I)erfunct( 
in  Addis( 
tion.  W 
books  of 
bad,  the 
publishct 
his  specii 
time,  to  s 
was  dete 
praised  1 
liking  fo 
with  his  I 
while  the 


TUE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


3, 


to  religion  must  have  been  a  great  trial  to  his  father:  his 
mother  would  look  at  him  with  a  half-mournful  admiration 
and  exclaim,  "  O  Washington,  if  you  were  only  good !  " 

The  father  conducted  family  prayers  at  nine  o'clock  in 
the  evening ;  and  Washington,  in  company  with  James  K. 
Paulding,  whose  sister  was  his  sister-in-law,  used  to  steal 
away  to  the  John-street  Theatre,  conveniently  near,  return 
in  time  to  be  present  at  the  devotions,  and  then,  retiring  to 
liis  room,  climb  out  through  the  window,  down  a  roof  to  a 
back  alley,  and  thus  regain  his  place  in  the  theatre  before 
the  "  after-piece  "  was  played. 

He  made  slow  progress  in  the  regular  studies  at  the 
schools,  where  the  teaching  seems  to  have  been  dull  and 
perfunctory.  At  the  age  of  ten  he  took  the  part  of  Juba 
in  Addison's  tragedy  of  "  Cato,"  given  at  a  school  exhibi- 
tion. When  eleven  he  showed  an  absorbing  passion  for 
books  of  travel  and  voyages.  "  Robinson  Crusoe,"  "  Sind- 
bad,  the  Sailor,"  and  the  collection  of  twenty  volumes 
published  under  the  title  of  "The  World  Displayed,"  were 
his  special  delight ;  and  he  used  to  carry  them,  one  at  a 
time,  to  school,  and  read  them  under  his  desk.  When  he 
was  detected  he  was  re;>rimanded,  though  his  teacher 
praised  him  for  his  good  taste  in  selection.  He  had  no 
liking  for  mathematics,  and  frequently  exchanged  tasks 
with  his  schoolmates.  He  would  write  their  compositions 
while  they  performed  his  problems.  He  had  a  great  long- 
ing to  see  tiie  world.     He  himself  says: 

"  I  was  always  fond  of  visiting  new  scenes,  and  observ- 
ing strange  characters  and  manners.  Even  when  a  mere 
child,  1  began  my  travels,  and  made  many  tours  of  discov- 
ery into  foreign  parts  and  unknown  regions  of  my  native 
city,  to  the  frequent  alarm  of  my  parents  and  the  emolu- 
ment of  the  town-crier.  As  I  grew  into  boyhood,  I  extended 
the  range  of  my  observations.     My  holiday  afternoons  were 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASUINQTON  IRVJNQ. 


spent  in  rarcbles  about  the  surrounding  country.  I  made 
myself  familiar  with  all  its  places  famous  in  history  or 
fable.  I  knew  every  spot  where  a  murder  or  a  robbery 
had  been  committed,  or  a  ghost  seen.  I  visited  the  neigh- 
boring villages,  and  added  greatly  to  my  stock  of  knowl- 
edge, by  noting  their  habits  and  customs,  and  conversing 
with  their  sages  and  great  men.  I  even  journeyed  one  long 
summer's  day  to  the  sunmiit  of  the  most  distant  hill,  whence 
I  stretched  my  eye  over  many  a  mile  of  terra  incognita,  and 
was  astonished  to  find  how  vast  a  globe  I  inhabitated." 

"  This  travelling  propensity  strengthened  with  my  years. 
Books  of  voyages  and  travels  became  my  passion,  and  in 
devouring  their  contents,  I  neglected  the  regular  exercises 
of  the  school.  How  AvistfuUy  would  I  wander  about  the 
pier-heads  in  fine  weather,  and  watch  the  parting  ships, 
bound  to  distant  climes  —  with  what  longing  eyes  would  I 
gaze  after  their  lessening  sails  .ind  waft  myself  in  imagi- 
nation to  the  ends  of  the  earth." 

At  one  time  he  entertained  the  idea  of  running  away 
from  home  and  engaging  as  a  sailor,  but  finally  gave  it  up 
on  account  of  an  unconquerable  dislike  to  salt  pork. 

He  began  to  show  a  literary  tendency  as  early  as  the  age 
of  thirteen  by  writing  a  play,  which  was  given  at  a  friend's 
house,  before  a  well-known  actress  of  the  day.  Irving's 
talent  for  writing,  however,  did  not  develop  along  dramatic 
lines.  The  evolution  of  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  "  as  a  play 
from  Irving's  sketch  was  a  slow  development.  Two  of  his 
brothei-s  —  Peter  and  John  —  were  sent  to  Columbia  Col- 
lege ;  but  he  was  not  given  this  advantage,  a  fact  which 
he  never  ceased  to  regret.  At  the  age  of  sixteen  his 
school-days  were  over,  and  he  entered  the  law-oifice  of 
Henry  Masterton,  where  he  spent  two  years,  but  made 
httle  advancement  in  the  study  of  law.  It  was  at  this 
period  that  he  made  his  voyage  up  the  Hudson,  the  recol- 


lections 
for  "  T 
thrown 
tains." 
Josiah  ( 
formed 
health  b 
dency  w 
a  series 
})aper,  o 
ters  wen 
style." 
much  tir 
the  Mob 
Springs, 
On  ac 
came  of 
at  their 
Bordeau: 
deaux,  lu 
young  Fi 
amusing 
They 
quilting, 
made  no 
them  p 
work. 
English 
Their  ki 
he  is  m 
do  with 
"Oh, 
"  perhapl 
They 


Ti/J7  LIFE  OF  WAHUIJSQTON  IHVINO. 


lections  of  wliich  form  part  of  an  article  begun  in  1851 
for  "  The  Home  Book  of  the  Picturesque,"  afterwards 
thrown  aside  to  give  place  to  "  The  Kaatskill  Moun- 
tains." In  1802  he  became  a  law-clerk  in  the  office  of 
Josiah  Ogdeu  HofTman,  with  whose  delightful  family  he 
formed  a  lasting  intimacy.  Soon  after  this  Mr.  Irving's 
healtli  became  impaired,  and  he  showed  a  consumptive  ten- 
dency which  alarmed  his  friends.  In  spite  of  this  he  began 
a  series  of  contributions  to  The  Morning  Chronicle^  a  daily 
paper,  owned  and  edited  by  his  brother  Peter.  These  let- 
ters were  in  a  humorous  vein,  and  signed  "■  Jonathan  Old- 
style."  During  the  following  two  or  three  years  he  spent 
much  time  in  excursions  up  the  valleys  of  the  Hudson  and 
the  Mohawk,  and  journeys  to  Montreal,  Quebec,  Saratoga 
Springs,  and  Ogdensburg. 

On  account  of  Mr.  Irving's  delicate  health,  when  he 
came  of  age  liis  brothers  resolved  to  send  him  to  Europe 
at  their  expense.  Accordingly  he  engaged  passage  for 
Bordeaux  in  May,  1804.  After  spending  six  weeks  in  Bor- 
deaux, he  stjirted  for  the  Mediterranean,  in  company  with  a 
young  French  officer  and  an  eccentric  American  doctor.  An 
amusing  story  is  told  of  his  stop  at  Tonneins  on  the  Garonne. 

They  entered  a  house  where  a  number  of  girls  were 
quilting.  He  could  not  underatand  their  dialect,  but  that 
made  no  difference.  They  laughed  and  joked,  and  one  of 
them  put  a  needle  into  liis  hands  and  made  him  go  to 
work.  The  doctor  informed  them  that  Irving  was  an 
English  prisoner  whom  the  French  officer  had  in  charge. 
Their  kind  liearts  melted:  " Poor  fellow,"  said  they,  " yet 
he  is  merry  in  spite  of  his  troubles."  "  What  will  they 
do  with  him?  "  asked  one  of  them. 

"  Oh,  nothing  of  consequence,"  replied  the  doctor ; 
"  perhaps  shoot  him  or  cut  off  his  head." 

The  young  French  girls  were  really  distressed  at  such  a 


6 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


prospect  for  the  handsome  foreigner.  They  resolved  to 
make  his  last  hours  as  happy  as  possible,  and  brought  liim 
wine  and  fruit,  and  when  he  went  away  gave  him  their 
heartiest  benedictions. 

Forty  yeais  later  Irving  went  out  of  his  way  to  revisit 
Tonneins,  with  the  hope  that  he  might  atone  for  the  cruel 
deception.  "It  was  a  shame,"  said  he,  "to  leave  them 
with  such  a  painful  impression.  ...  I  believe  I  recog- 
nized the  house,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "  and  I  saw  two  or 
tliree  old  women  who  might  once  have  formed  part  of  the 
merry  group  of  girls  ;  but  I  doubt  whether  they  recognized 
in  the  stout  elderly  gentleman,  thus  rattling  in  his  car- 
riage through  the  street,  the  pale  young  English  prisoner 
of  forty  years  since." 

At  Avignon  he  paused  with  the  hope  of  paying  his 
devotions  at  Laui-a's  Shrine.  «'  Judge  of  my  surprise,  my 
disappointment,  and  my  indignation,"  he  wrote,  "  when  I 
was  told  the  church  —  tomb  and  all  —  were  utterly  de- 
molished at  the  time  of  the  Revolution.  Never  did  the 
Revolution,  its  authors,  and  its  consequences,  receive  a 
more  hearty  and  sincere  execration  than  at  that  moment. 
Throughout  the  whole  of  my  journey  I  had  found  reason 
to  exclaim  against  it  for  depriving  me  of  some  valuable 
curiosity  or  celebrated  monument,  but  this  was  the  severest 
disappointment  it  had  yet  occasioned," 

At  that  time  foreigners  were  closely  watched  and  scru- 
tinized in  France.  The  police  suspected  Irving  of  being 
an  English  spy,  and  dogged  him  at  every  step.  He  was 
detained  at  Marseilles,  and  kept  fivd  weeks  at  Nice  on 
various  frivolous  pretex'.^ ;  and  the  journey  was  rendered 
particularly  disagreeable  by  dirty  cars,  by  the  noise  and 
insolence  of  the  i^opulace.  But  Irving  said :  "  When  I 
cannot  get  a  dinner  to  suit  my  taste,  I  endeavor  to  get  a 
taste  to  suit  my  dinner; "  and  he  declared  that  he  tried  to 


4 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


be  pleased  with  everything  about  hira,  with  the  masters, 
mistresses,  and  servants,  especially  when  he  thought  they 
were  doing  their  best  to  serve  him. 

He  reached  Genoa  in  October.  TIere  ho  found  the 
society  delightful ;  his  he.alth  was  restored  and  his  spirits 
returned,  and  he  enjoyed  the  gayety  of  tlie  city  life.  Late 
in  December  he  sailed  in  a  Gc^ioese  packet  for  Sicily. 
Here  he  had  an  experience  with  pirates.  Off  the  island 
of  Planoca  a  pickaroon  with  l«teen  sails  and  armed  witli 
guns  overhauled  them  ;  and  they  were  boarded  by  a  pictur- 
esquely villanous  crew  in  ragged  garb,  and  with  cutlasses 
in  hand  and  stilettos  and  pistols  in  belt,  like  genuine 
stage  villains.  The  packet  was  thorouglily  ransacked ;  all 
the  trunks  and  portmanteaus  were  opened  by  them,  but 
they  carried  off  little  besides  brandy  and  provisions.  On 
their  departure  they  gave  the  captain  a  "  receipt "  for 
what  they  took  and  an  order  on  the  British  Consul  at 
Messina  to  pay  for  it. 

Irving  spent  two  months  in  Sicily,  and  made  several 
inland  journeys  in  which  he  ran  great  risk  of  being  cap- 
tured by  the  banditti  which  were  then  overrunning  +he 
island.  He  was  painfully  struck  by  the  poverty  and 
wretchedness  of  the  natives.  He  wrote  that  his  mind 
never  suffered  so  much  as  on  a  jouiney  which  he  took 
from  Syracuse  through  the  centre  of  the  island  —  the  half- 
starved  peasants  living  in  wretched  cabins  anr*  often  in 
filthy  caverns  infested  with  vermin. 

But  in  the  ports  he  found  American  ships,  and  he  was 
everywhere  received  as  a  comrade.  "  Every  ship  was  a 
home  and  every  officer  a  friend."  At  Messina  he  saw 
Lord  Nelson's  fleet  passing  through  the  straits  in  search 
of  the  French  fleet. 

From  there  he  went  to  Naples  in  a  fruitrboat  which 
safely  dodged  the  cruisers,  and  he  readied  Rome  in  March. 


1 1 


M 


8  THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

Here  lie  met  Washington  Allston,  the  painter,  and  was  so 
captivated  b;  him  and  by  the  ideal  life  tliat  he  led  that  he 
was  half  inclined  to  abandon  law  and  become  an  artist 
himself.     He  also  made  the  acquaintance  of  Madame  de 
Stael,  the  gifted  authoress,  and  saw  considerable  of  Roman 
society.    The  head  of  the  great  banking-house  of  Torlonia 
paid  him  special  attention,  supposing  he  was  a  relative  of 
General  Washington- 
He  hurried  th.-ough  to  Italy  ;n  order  to  get  to  Paris 
where,  he  wrote  his  brother  Wilxlam,  he  wished  "  to  pay 
attention  to  yeveral  branches  of  art  and  science."     He 
spent  four  months  in  Paris,  and  went  to  London  by  way  of 
the  Netherlands  in  October.     He  kept  no  journal,  eithor 
in  Paris  or  London ;  but  the  chief  attraction  in  the  latter 
city  seems  to  have  been  the  theatre,  where  he  saw  Mrs. 
Siddons,  George  Frederick  Cooke  and  John  Kemble. 

Later  on,  soon  after  the  publication  of  ''The  Sketch- 
Book,"  Mr.  Irving  met  Mrs.  Siddons  at  some  fashionable 
assembly,  and  was  brought  up  to  be  presented.  Slie  looked 
at  him  for  a  moment,  and  then  in  her  cleai  voice  said  slowl}-. 
"You've  made  me  weep."  The  modest  author  was  so  en- 
tirely taken  by  surprise  and  disconcerted  that  he  had  not 
a  word  to  say,  ana  very  soon  retreated.  After  "  Brace- 
bridge  Hall  "  appeared,  he  met  her  again  in  company,  and 
was  met  with  a  similar  address :  "  You've  made  me  we^p 
again."  This  t'n  e  he  was  prepared,  and  replied  with  some 
complimentary  allusion  to  the  pffect  of  hor  own  pathos. 

In  Februaiy,  1806,  Irving  retf^-ned  to  New  York  with 
renewed  health  and  vigor.  He  was  admitted  to  the  bar, 
but  he  devoted  his  time  more  than  ever  to  society.  He  was 
one  of  a  group  of  young  men  of  convivial  habits  known 
as  "the  nine  worthies,"  or  as  "tbo  lads  of  Kilkenny," 
as  Irving  frequently  alludes  to  them  in  his  letters.  Their 
favorite  resort  was  an  old  mansion  called  Cockloft  Hall, 


about  a 

do'ied,  h( 

attained 

is  thus  d 

"He  : 

which  m 

forehead 

height,  a" 

inclined 

geni.-'l,  li, 

attractive 

ous,  it  w 

words  we 

ceedingly 

dark  hair 

wore  neit 

\v  jg,  whicl 

beat  oifull 

a  social  fa| 

It  was 
dence  of 
Paulaing 
tion  of 
duouc^cim 
own  am; 
It  ran  thi 
a  "  spirit 
ch^is  were 
tributed 
the  poetiv 
loft."     M 
"  Salmagi 
or.iy  of 
the  inter] 


THE  LIFE  OF   WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


9 


about  a  mile  above  Newark.  They  were  not  so  aban- 
doned, however,  as  they  pretended  to  be,  and  many  of  them 
attained  distinction  in  later  life.  His  personal  appearance 
is  thus  described  by  a  relative : 

"  He  had  dark  gray  eyes ;  a  handsome  straight  nose, 
which  might  perhaps  be  called  large ;  a  broad,  high,  full 
forehead ;  and  a  small  mouth.  I  should  call  him  of  riedium 
height,  about  five  feet  eight  and  a  half  to  nine  inches,  and 
inclined  to  be  a  trifle  stout.  His  smile  v/as  exceedingly 
geni.''!,  lighting  up  his  whole  face  and  rendering  it  very 
attractive  ;  while,  if  he  were  about  to  say  anything  humor- 
ous, it  would  beam  forth  from  his  eyes  even  before  the 
words  were  spoken.  As  a  young  man  his  face  was  ex- 
ceedingly handsome,  and  his  head  was  well  covered  with 
dark  hair;  but  from  my  earliest  recollection  of  him  he 
'  wore  neither  whiskers  nor  moustache,  but  a  dark  brown 
w>g,  which,  although  it  made  him  look  younger,  concealed  a 
beai  oifully  shaped  head."  So  it  was  no  wonder  that  he  was 
a  social  favorite,  not  only  in  New  York  but  in  other  cities. 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Irving  gave  the  lii-st  real  evi- 
dence of  his  choice  of  a  career.  Together  with  James  K. 
Paulaing  and  his  brother  William,  he  planned  the  produc- 
tion of  Salmagundi,  a  semi-monthly  periodical,  in  small 
duodv-^cimo  sheets.  The  work  was  undertaken  for  their 
own  amusement,  and  with  no  hope  of.  pecuniary  profit. 
It  ran  through  twenty  numbers,  and  was  characterized  by 
a  "  spirit  of  fun  and  sarcastic  drollery. '  Some  of  the  arti- 
cles were  written  entirely  by  Paulding,  others  were  con- 
tributed by  Washington,  while  his  brother  William  wrote 
the  poetical  pieces  under  the  signature  of  "  Pindar  Cock- 
loft." Mr.  Duyckinck,  in  his  preface  to  the  volume  of 
"Salmagundi,"  says,  '•''Salmagundi  is  the  literary  parent  not 
oniy  of  '  The  Sketch-Hook  '  and  '  The  AUiambra,'  but  of  al) 
the  intermediate  and  subsequent  productions  of  Irving." 


10 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


Not  long  after  Salmagundi  was  discontinued  Mr.  Irving 
with  his  brother  Peter  began  the  "  History  of  New  York." 
At  first  only  a  burlesque  on  Dr.  Samuel  Mitchell's  "  Pic- 
ture of  New  York,"  was  intended ;  but  later  on  Peter  was 
called  to  Liverpool  on  urgent  business,  and  Washington 
was  left  to  go  on  with  the  work.     He  had  great  difficulty 
in  condensing  the  enormous  mass  of  notes  accumulated, 
into  five  introductory  chapters,  and  the  r*  st  of  tlie  book 
was  entirely  his  own.     While  engaged  on  this  work  the 
author  received  the  crushing  blow  from  which  he  never 
wholly  recovered.     He  had  conceived  an  ardent  passion 
for  Mr.  Hoffman's  second  daughter,  Matilda,  and  his  affec- 
tion was  reciprocated.     He  was  struggling  to  better  his 
condition,  in  order  to  be  able  to  marry  her,  v/hen  the  lovely 
girl,  in  the  eighteenth  year  of  her  age,  died,  after  a  short 
illness.    The  fact  that  Mr.  Irving  never  alluded  to  this 
chapter  of  his  life,  nor  ever  mentioned  her  name  to  his 
most  intimate  friends,  shows  how  deeply  he  was  affecteJ. 
After  his  deatli,  in   a  repository  which  he   always  kept 
locked,  was  found  a  package  containing  some  memoranda 
concerning  her,  a  beautiful  miniature  in  a  case,  with  a 
braid  of  hair,  and  a  slip  of  paper  on  which  lie  had  written 
"Matilda  Hoffman."     He  kept  her  Bible  and  Prayer-book 
by  him  all  through  his  life,  and  for  some  time  after  her 
death  put  them  under  his  pillow  every  night.      Thirt^' 
years  afterwards  her  father,  in  taking  some  music  from 
a  drawer,  found  a  piece  of  embroidery  and  handed  it  to 
Irving,  saying,— 

"  Washington,  this  is  a  piece  of  poor  Matilda's  handi- 
work." Irving,  who  had  been  particularly  gay,  suddenly 
relapsed  into  silence  and  left  tlie  house. 

Long  after  his  death  a  part  of  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Foster  of 
Berlin  was  published.    He  said  in  it :  — 
"We  saw  each  other  every  day,  and  I  became  excessively 


attached 
more  I  s 
Her  min 
to  discov 
I,  for  she 
ner  studi 
intuitive 
quisite  p: 
young  cr( 
acknowle 
idolized  li 
cacy  and  ] 
comparisc 
ills  that  1 
to  me  drc 
I  saw  her 
and  more 
she  looke( 
mind  I  wj 
ing;    the 
thoughts 
not  beur 
was  a  dis 
me  fear  t( 
and  seek 
hunian  be 
gloom  of 
"  I  was 
tachmentfi 
tinually  r 
was  a  pa 
would  sin 

Irving 
niece:  "'' 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


11 


1 


attached  to  her.  Her  shyness  wore  off  by  degrees.  The 
more  I  saw  of  her,  the  more  I  had  reason  to  admire  her. 
Her  mind  seemed  to  unfold  leaf  by  leaf,  and  every  time 
to  discover  new  sweetness.  Nobody  knew  her  so  well  as 
I,  for  slie  was  generally  timid  and  silent  ;  but  I  in  a  man- 
ner studied  her  excellence.  Never  did  I  meet  with  more 
intuitive  rectitude  of  mind,  more  native  delicacy,  more  ex- 
quisite propriety  in  word,  thought,  and  action,  than  in  this 
young  creature.  I  am  not  exaggerating;  what  I  say  was 
acknowledged  by  all  who  knew  her.  .  .  .  For  my  part  I 
idolized  her.  I  felt  at  times  rebuked  by  her  superior  deli- 
cacy and  purity,  and  as  if  I  was  a  coarse,  unworthy  being  in 
comparison.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  I  have  suffered.  The 
ills  that  I  have  undergone  in  this  life  have  been  dealt  out 
to  me  drop  by  drop,  and  I  have  tasted  all  their  bitterness. 
I  saw  her  fade  rapidly  away  ;  beautiful  and  more  beautiful 
and  more  angelic  to  the  last.  ...  I  was  the  last  one 
she  looked  upon.  I  cannot  tell  you  what  a  horrid  state  of 
mind  I  was  in  for  a  long  time.  I  seemed  to  care  for  noth- 
ing; the  world  was  a  blank  to  me.  I  abandoned  all 
thoughts  of  the  law.  I  went  into  the  country,  but  could 
not  beur  solitude,  yet  could  not  endure  society.  There 
was  a  dismal  horror  continually  in  my  mind,  which  made 
me  fear  to  be  alone.  I  had  often  to  get  up  in  the  night, 
and  seek  the  bedroom  of  my  brother,  as  if  the  having  a 
human  being  by  me  would  relieve  me  from  the  frightful 
gloom  of  my  own  thoughts.  .  .  . 

"  I  was  naturally  susceptible,  and  tried  to  form  other  at- 
tachments, but  my  heart  would  not  hold  on  ;  it  would  con- 
tinually recur  to  what  it  had  lost;  and  whenever  there 
was  a  pause  in  the  hurry  of  novelty  and  excitement,  I 
would  sink  into  dismal  dejection." 

Irving  never  married  ;  he  used  to  say  playfully  to  a 
niece :  "  You  know  I  was  never  intended  for  a  bachelor." 


N 


n 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


'( 


fi^  :i 


The  two  months  following  Matilda's  death  were  spent 
in  the  country  at  the  house  of  his  friend,  Judge  William 
Van  Ness.  In  order  to  combat  grief  he  applied  himself 
vigorously  to  working  on  his  "  History  of  New  York  by 
Diedrich  Knickerbocker."  In  his  memoranda,  he  writes : 
"  When  I  became  more  calm  and  collected  I  applied  my- 
self, by  way  of  occupation,  to  the  finishing  of  my  work. 
I  brought  it  to  a  close,  as  well  as  I  could,  and  published 
it;  but  the  time  and  circumstances  in  which  it  was  pro- 
duced rendered  me  always  unable  to  look  upon  it  with 
satisfaction." 

The  work  was  printed  in  Philadelphia  in  order  to  keep 
its  real  character  from  being  known  in  advance  of  its  ap- 
pearance. At  the  same  time  it  was  very  cleverly  advertised. 
A  notice  appeared  in  the  Evening  .Post,  to  the  effect  that 
*'a  small  elderly  gentleman  by  the  name  of  Knickerbocker 
had  disappeared  from  his  lodgings.  He  was  dressed  in 
an  old  black  coat  and  cocked  hat."  Soon  after  another 
paragraph  appeared  in  the  papers  to  the  effect  that  a  per- 
son answering  the  description  had  been  seen  by  the  pas- 
pongers  of  the  Albany  stage,  that  he  was  resting  by  the 
roadside  with  a  small  bundle  tied  in  a  red  bandana  hand- 
kerchief; and  then  another  stating  that  Mr.  Diedrich 
Knickerbocker  had  gone  from  his  hotel  without  paying 
his  board,  and  if  he  did  not  return  a  very  curious  book 
which  he  had  left  would  have  to  be  sold  to  satisfy  the 
landlord.  '  ' 

The  volume  appeared  Dec.  6,  1809,  and  was  advertised 
then  as  a  grave,  matter-of-fact  history,  even  being  dedi- 
cated "To  the  New  York  Historical  Society."  So  it  is 
not  difficult  to  imagine  the  surprise  that  many  felt  on 
perusing  the  work,  to  find  that  the  author  had  used  "  the 
events  which  compose  the  history  of  the  three  Dutch  gov- 
ernors of  New  York,  merely  as  a  vehicle  to  convey  a  world 


of  sati 
descen 
of  thei 
beyond 
first  ed 
In  sj 
sion  wi 
precarii 
was  an 
regular 
ings,  he 
were  er 
this  req 
ciently 
ence,  a 
Yet  he  i 
and  the 
fruit,  w 
tory  of 
still  he 
leisure. 
Thei 
to  mere 
certain 
turned 
the  edit 
of  fiftee 
biograp 
azine  p 
ment  ol 
he  wish 
In  1^ 
ernor 
1816, 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


13 


of  satire,  whim,  and  ludicrous  description  "  Many  of  the 
descendants  of  the  rolonists  were  indignant  at  the  ridicule 
of  their  Dutch  ancestors,  but  the  work  had  a  success  far 
beyond  the  author's  expectation.  The  returns  from  the 
first  edition  amounted  to  about  three  thousand  dollars. 

In  spite  of  this  success,  however,  literature  as  a  profes- 
sion was  not  attractive  to  him.  He  felt  that  it  was  too 
precarious,  and  too  liable  to  trials  and  tribulations.  He 
was  anxious  to  find  some  employment  to  assure  him  a 
regular  income.  Finally,  after  many  doubts  and  misgiv- 
ings, he  entered  i»ito  a  partnership  with  his  brothers,  who 
were  engaged  in  the  hardware  business.  By  arrangement 
this  required  little  work  from  him,  and  brought  him  a  sufQ- 
ciently  large  share  in  the  profits  to  provide  for  his  subsist- 
ence, and  give  him  time  to  devote  himself  to  literature. 
Yet  he  seems  to  have  devoted  his  time  mostly  to  society .; 
and  the  two  yeai-s  that  followed  were  without  literary 
fruit,  with  the  exception  of  a  revised  edition  of  the  "  His- 
tory of  New  York."  His  conscience  often  smote  him,  but 
still  he  settled  down  into  the  easy  life  of  a  gentleman  of 
leisure. 

The  war  which  broke  out  in  1812  brought  great  anxiety 
to  merchants,  and  caused  Washington  Irving  to  feel  un- 
certain about  his  commercial  interests.  This  probably 
turned  his  thoughts  once  more  to  literature.  He  assumed 
the  editorial  charge  of  the  Analectic  Magazine^  at  a  salary 
of  fifteen  hundred  dollars  a  year,  and  wrote  reviews  and 
biographical  sketches  for  it.  The  management  of  the  mag- 
azine proved  very  irksome  to  him,  especially  the  depart- 
ment of  criticism,  for  he  could  not  bear  to  inflict  pain,  and 
he  wished  to  be  just. 

In  1814  Irving  enlisted  in  the  war,  and  was  made  Gov- 
ernor Tompkins's  aid  and  military  secretary.  In  May, 
1816,  he  sailed  for  England  to  visit  his  brother,  and  little 


1 


u 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


dreamed  that  seventeen  years  would  elapse   before   his 
return.    It  had  been  nearly  seven  years  since  his  parting 
with  Peter,  but  he  found  hira  so  much  like  old  times  that 
it  soon  seemed  as  if  he  had  only  left  him  the  day  before. 
Peter  was  at  this  time  suffering  from  an  indisposition, 
which  finally  resulted  in  a  long  illness,  which  kept  him  an 
invalid  until  the  following  May.      Washington  spent  a 
week  witli  Peter,  and  then  went  to  visit  his  brother-in-law 
in  Birmingham,  and  from  there  to  Sydenham,  to  visit 
the  poet  Campbell.     From  London  he  returned  to  Bir- 
mingham, and  after  a  few  days  started  on  a  tour  by  way 
of  Bath  ann  Bristol,  through  South  and  North  Wales,  to 
Liverpool.    Peter's  illness  made  it  necessary  for  Washing- 
ton to  take  charge  of  the  business  in  Liverpool ;  and  he 
applied  himself  assiduously  to  it,  in  spite  of  his  aversion 
to  everything  of  the  sort.     The  two  years  following  were 
full  of  care  and  worry.    He  writes  in  January,  1816,  "  I 
would  not  again  experience  the  anxious  days  and  sleepless 
nights  which  have  been  my  lot  since  I  have  taken  hold  of 
business,  to  possess  the  wealth  of  Croesus." 

Liverpool,  where  he  was  obliged  to  spend  most  of  his 
time,  was  unattractive  to  him ;  and  he  was  too  low-spirited 
to  make  the  most  of  the  society  offered  him.     In  the  win- 
ter of  1815  he  made  a  visit  to  London,  and  was  completely 
carried  away  by  Miss  O'Neil's  acting,  but  refused  to  be 
introduced  to  her  for  fear  of  being  disenchanted.     The 
following  summer  Peter  recovered  his  health  sufficiently 
to  return  to  Liverpool ;  and  Washington  was  enabled  to 
get  away  from  the  tread-mill,  and  visit  his  sister's  family 
in  Birmingham.    He  made  a  little  excursion  into  Derby- 
shire, which  was  the  one  bright  spot  in  the  year,  and  then ' 
returned  to  his  sister's  house,  where  he  tried  to  devote 
himself  to  literary  work ;  but  his  uneasimess  about  business 
affairs  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  use  his  pen.     His 


TUE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


15 


anxiety,  however,  was  always  for  his  relatives,  rather  than 
for  himself. 

In  the  spring  of  1817  Irving  was  getting  ready  a  new 
edition  of  the  "History  of  New  York,"  with  designs  by 
Allston  and  Leslie.  He  was  intending  to  return  to 
America,  when  the  death  of  his  mother,  at  the  age  of 
seventy-nine,  occurred,  and  caused  him  to  change  his 
plans.  When  he  had  left  her  in  New  York,  it  was  liis 
intention  to  return  in  a  short  time  to  remain  with  her  the 
rest  of  her  life.  Business  did  not  improve ;  and  Irving 
formed  a  plan  with  the  Philadelphia  publisher,  Moses 
Thomas,  which  would  give  him  means  of  support,  and 
at  the  same  time  enable  him  to  use  his  pen.  It  was  an 
arrangement  for  the  republication  in  America  of  choice 
English  works.  About  this  time  Irving'  made  the  ac- 
quaintance of  the  elder  D'Israeli  at  a  dinner  at  Murray's 
in  London,  and  spent  some  time  with  Sir  Walter  Scott,  a 
visit  afterwards  commemorated  in  his  immortal  "  Abbots- 
ford."  >  • 

In  a  most  interesting  letter  written  to  his  brother  Peter 
he  tells  he  took  chaise  for  Melrose,  and  on  the  w«ay  stopped 
at  the  gate  of  Abbotsford,  and  sent  in  his  letter  of  intro- 
duction, with  a  request  to  know  whether  it  would  be 
agreeable  for  Scott  to  receive  a  visit  from  him  in  the 
course  of  the  day. 

The  "  glorious  old  minstrel "  himself  came  limping  to 
the  gate,  took  him  by  the  hand  in  a  way  that  made  him 
feel  as  if  they  were  old  friends,  seated  him  at  his  hospit- 
able board  among  his  charming  little  family,  and  kept  him 
there  as  long  as  he  would  stjiy.  Irving  enjoyed  the  hours 
he  passed  there ;  he  said  they  flew  by  too  quick,  yet  each 
was  loaded  with  story,  incident,  or  song;  and  when  he 
considered  the  world  of  ideas,  images,  and  impressions  that 
had  been  crowded  upon  his  mind  during  his  visit,  it  seemed 


I 


! 


16 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


to  him  incredible  that  he  should  have  been  only  two  days 

at  Abbotsford. 

He  rambled  about  the  hills  with  Scott;  visited  the 
haunts  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  and  other  spots  rendered 
classic  by  border  tale  and  witching  song,  and  he  declared 
that  he  had  been  in  a  kind  of  dream  or  delirium. 

Irving  found  himself  unable  to  express  his  delight  at 
Scott's  character  and  manners.  He  called  him  "  a  sterling, 
golden-hearted  old  worthy,  full  of  the  joyousness  of  youth, 
with  an  imagination  continually  furnishing  forth  pictures, 
and  a  charming  simplicity  of  manner  that  puts  you  at  ease 
with  him  in  a  moment."  He  found  it  a  constant  source 
of  pleasure  to  remark  his  deportment  toward  his  family, 
his  neighboi-s,  his  domestics,  his  very  dogs  and  cats ;  every- 
thing that  came  within  his  influence  seemed  to  catch  a 
beam  of  that  sunshine  that  played  round  his  heart. 

Early  in  1818,  after  vain  endeavors  to  compromise  with 
their  creditors,  the  two  brothers  made  up  their  minds  to 
go  through  the  humiliating  ordeal  of  taking  the  bankrupt 
act.  Washington  felt  little  anxiety  for  himself,  but  he 
was  torn  with  anguish  for  his  brothers.  He  was  to  receive 
one  thousand  dollars  a  year  compensation  from  Moses 
Thomas;  but  the  arrangement  only  continued  a  twelve- 
month, and  in  August  Imng  went  to  London,  determined 
to  rely  on  his  pen  for  a  support.  He  had  been  in  London 
but  two  weeks  when  he  was  obliged  to  part  with  his  friend 
AUston,  who  returned  to  America.  Soon  after  this  he 
received  word  from  his  brother  William  to  the  effect  that 
his  old  friend  Decatur  was  keeping  a  clerkship  open  in 
the  Navy  for  him  with  a  salary  of  twenty-four  hundred 
dollars  a  year,  and  that  he  was  waiting  for  a  reply. 
To  the  great  disappointment  of  his  brothei-s,  he  refused 
the  offer.  He  was  determined  to  let  nothing  interfere 
with  his  literary  career.      "This   resolution,"   says   Mr. 


THE  LIFE  OF  WAHUINOTON  IRVUfO, 


17 


days 

d  the 

dered 

clared 


■$ 


Charles  Dudley  Warner,  "  which  exhibited  a  modest  con- 
fidence in  his  own  powers,  and  the  energy  with  which  he 
threw  himself  into  his  career,  showed  the  fibre  of  the  man. 
Suddenly,  by  the  reverse  of  fortune,  he  who  had  been 
regarded  as  merely  the  ornamental  genius  of  the  family 
became  its  stay  and  support.  If  he  had  accepted  the  aid 
of  his  brothers  during  the  experimental  period  of  his  life, 
in  the  loving  spirit  of  confidence  in  which  it  was  given, 
he  was  not  less  ready  to  reverse  the  relations  when  the 
time  came  ;  the  delicacy  with  which  his  assistance  was 
rendered,  the  scrupulous  care  taken  to  convey  the  feeling 
that  his  brothers  were  doing  him  a  continual  favor  in 
shr.ring  his  good  fortune,  and  their  own  unjealous  accept- 
ance of  what  they  would  as  freely  have  given  if  circum- 
stances had  been  different,  form  one  of  the  pleasantest 
instances  of  brotherly  concord  and  self-abnegation.  I 
know  nothing  more  admirable  than  the  life-long  relations 
of  this  talented  and  sincere  family." 

Early  in  the  year  1819  Irving  began  preparing  the 
first  number  of  "  The  Sketch-Book,"  which  was  published 
in  America  the  foUov/ing  May.  The  title  of  the  series, 
which  was  not  completed  until  September,  1820,  was 
"The  Sketch-Book  of  Geoffrey  Crayon,  Gent."  The 
first  number  contained  the  Prospectus,  the  author's  ac- 
count of  himself,  the  Voyage,  Roscoe,  the  Wife,  and  Rip 
Van  Winkle.  It  was  published  simultaneously  in  New 
York,  Boston,  Philadelphia,  and  Baltimore.  The  first 
edition  consisted  of  two  thousand  copies.  The  style  of 
the  publication  was  ^jeautiful  for  those  days,  and  the  price 
of  the  first  number  was  seventy-five  cents.  Its  appearance 
created  a  sensation  in  America,  and  this  soon  spread  to  Eng- 
land. Chambers's  "  Cyclopaedia  of  English  Literature  " 
declared  the  stories  of  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  "  and  "  Sleepy 
Hollow "  to  be  "  the  finest  pieces   of   original  fictitious 


u 


TEX  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


.1 


writing  that  this  ceutury  has  produced,  next  to  the  works 

of  Scott." 

Lord  Byron,  speaking  of  "  The  Broken  Heart,"  the  hero- 
ine of  which  was  the  daughter  of  John  Philpot  Curran,  the 
Irish  leader,  said :  "  That  is  one  of  the  finest  things  ever 
written  on  earth.  Irving  is  a  genius ;  and  he  has  some- 
thing better  than  genius  — a  heart.  He  never  wrote  that 
without  weeping ;  nor  can  I  hear  it  without  tears.  I  have 
not  wept  much  in  this  world,  for  trouble  never  brings 
tears  to  my  eyes;  but  I  always  have  tears  for  *The 
Broken  Heart.' " 

Irving  was  completely  overwhelmed  —  "  appalled  "  was 
the  term  he  used  —  by  the  success  of  "  The  Sketch-Book ; " 
but  he  was  not  in  the  least  puffed  up.  He  writes  to  his 
friend  Brevoort,  hoping  that  he  would  not  attribute  to  an 
author's  vanity  all  that  sensibility  to  the  kind  reception  he 
had  met  with.  He  declared  vanity  could  not  bring  the 
tears  into  his  eyes,  as  they  had  been  brought  by  the  kind- 
ness of  his  countrymen.  "  I  have  felt  cast  down,  blighted, 
and  broken-spirited,"  he  wrote;  "and  these  sudden  rays 
of  sunshine  agitate  even  more  than  they  revive  me."  And 
he  expressed  the  hope  that  he  might  yet  do  something 
more  worthy  of  the  approbation  lavished  on  him. 

Several  of  the  papers  in  "  The  Sketch-Book "  were 
copied  into  English  periodicals ;  and  a  writer  in  Black- 
wood, expressing  surprise  that  the  work  had  been  printed 
in  America  earlier  than  in  Britain,  predicted  that  there 
would  be  a  large  and  eager  demand  for  it. 

Irving  had  already  met  John  Murray,  "  the  Prince  of 
Booksellers;"  and  he  took  to  him  the  first  three  num- 
bei-s  of  "  The  Sketch-Book,"  with  a  proposition  tliat  he 
should  issue  them.  Murray  did  not  see  "that  scope  in 
the  nature  of  it  which  would  enable  him  to  make  those 
satisfactory  accounts  between  them   without   which   he 


TUE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


.19 


felt  no  real  satisfaction  in  undertaking  to  publish  for 
another." 

So  Irving  sought  the  advice  of  Scott,  telling  him  frankly 
that  he  "  was  in  the  mire."  Scott  at  once  wrote,  asking 
him  if  he  would  become  the  editor  of  a  magazine  at  a 
yearly  salary  of  five  hundred  pounds.  But  Irving  refused 
this  offer,  stating  that  he  was  "  unfitted  for  any  periodi- 
cally recurring  task,  or  any  stipulated  labor  of  body  or 
mind,"  and  was  fis  useless  for  regular  service  as  one  of  his 
own  country  Indians  or  a  Don-Cossack. 

Scott  advised  him  to  apply  to  Constable ;  but  Irving 
resolved  to  let  the  work  go  on  its  own  merits,  and  entered 
into  an  arrangement  with  a  man  named  Miller,  who  pub- 
lished the  first  four  numbers  in  a  volume  in  1820.  But 
within  a  month  Miller  failed.  Again  Scott  came  to 
Irving's  aid,  and  induced  John  Murray  «o  undertake  the 
work.  Murray  paid  him  two  hundred  pounds  for  it,  and 
afterwards  voluntarily  more  than  doubled  the  honorarium. 
From  that  time  forth  Murray  was  his  regular  publisher, 
and  treated  him  with  exemplary  generosity. 

In  August,  1820,  Irving  went  to  Paris  with  his  brother 
Peter.  There  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  Thomas 
Moore,  with  whom  he  formed  a  firm  and  lasting  friend- 
ship ;  Talma,  the  great  French  tragedian ;  John  Howard 
Payne,  Canning,  Sydney  Smith,  and  George  Bancroft. 
The  following  year  Irving  returned  to  England,  taking 
with  him  several  plan's  by  the  author  of  "  Home,  Sweet 
Home,"  with  the  hope  of  disposing  of  them  for  the  benefit 
of  Payne,  whose  finances  were  in  bad  shape.  He  spent 
some  time  in  London,  and  visited  his  sister  in  Birmingham, 
where  he  was  detained  four  months  by  illness.  He  re- 
turned to  London  in  December;  but  he  continued  to  suffer 
from  the  trouble  in  his  ankles,  so  that  he  was  unable  to 
walk  without  pain  and  difficulty.     Here  he  wrote  "  Brace- 


8f.  THE  LIFE  OF   WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

bridge  Hall,"  which  appeared  in  America  in  1822.  He 
arranged  that  it  should  be  brought  out  by  a  publisher  who 
had  failed  in  business ;  but  Irving  says,  "  he  had  shown  a 
disposition  to  serve  me,  and  did  serve  me  in  the  time  of 
my  necessity,  and  J  should  despise  myself  could  I  for  a 
moment  forget  it."  Irving  sold  the  work  to  Murray  for 
a  thousand  guineas. 

In  July  he  left  London,  to  travel  in  Germany  for  his 
health.  He  spent  six  months  most  delightfully  in  Dresden, 
where  he  met  an  English  family  by  the  name  of  Foster, 
with  whom  he  became  very  intimate,  and  whose  house  be- 
came a  home  to  him.  With  the  daughter  Emily  he  formed 
a  warm  friendship,  which  the  family  seem  to  have  believed 
would  have  ended  in  marriage,  if  the  lady's  affections  had 
not  already  been  turned  in  another  direction.  After 
Irving's  death  this  same  daughter  wrote  of  him  in  these 
glowing  terms:  "He  was  thorouglily  a  gentleman,  not 
merely  externally,  in  manners  and  look,  but  io  the  inmost 
fibres  and  core  of  his  heart.  Sweet-tempered,  gentle,  fas- 
tidious, sensitive,  and  gifted  with  the  warmest  affections, 
the  most  delightful  and  invariably  interesting  companion, 
gay,  and  full  of  humor,  even  in  spite  of  occasional  fits  of 
melancholy,  whicl:  he  was,  however,  seldom  subject  to 
when  with  those  he  liked — a  gift  of  conversation  that 
flowed  like  a  full  river  in  sunshine,  bright,  easy,  and 
abundant." 

In  July,  1823,  he  returned  to  Paris  and  to  literary  work. 
In  1821  the  "  Tales  of  a  Traveller  "  appeared.  In  New 
York  it  was  published  in  four  parts.  It  did  not  excite  so 
much  surprise,  nor  was  it  so  popular,  as  his  previous  publi- 
cations; but  it  sustained  the  author's  reputation,  and  is 
thought  to  contain  some  of  his  best  writing.  Murray  paiil 
him  fifteen  hundred  pounds  for  the  copyright.  After  this 
he  worked  on  some  American  essays,  and  contemplated 


THE  LIFE  OF   [VASHINGTON  IRVING. 


21 


writing  a  "  Life  of  Washington  j  "  but  this  was  abandoned 
to  undertake  tlie  "  Life  of  Columbus,"  for  which  purpose 
he  started  for  Madrid,  reaching  there  in  Feburary,  1826. 
His  first  intention  was  to  make  a  translation  of  M.  Navar- 
rete's  "Voyage  of  Columbus;"  but  he  soon  discovered 
that  this  work  was  "rather  a  mass  of  rich  materials  for 
history  than  a  history  itself,"  so  he  abandoned  the  idea, 
and  began  making  researches  for  an  original  "  Life  of 
Columbus."  Ho  was  unceasing  in  his  labors,  sometimes 
working  all  day  and  until  midnight.  At  one  time  he 
wrote  from  five  in  the  morning  until  eight  at  night,  only 
stopping  for  meals.  His  studies  for  this  "  Life  of  Colum- 
bus "  brought  him  into  contact  with  the  old  chronicles  and 
legends  of  Spain,  from  which  arose  those  fascinating  books 
which  are  the  fruits  of  his  sojourn  in  Spain.  During 
Irving's  stay  in  Madrid,  the  house  of  the  Russian  minis- 
ter, M.  D'Oubril,  became  a  favorite  resort.  Prince  Dol- 
goruki,  and  Mademoiselle  Bolville,  a  niece  of  Madame 
D'Oubril,  were  inmates  of  his  household ;  and  his  lettera 
to  them  give  charming  glimpses  of  the  author's  life  in 
Spain. 

Through  Irving's  desire  for  historical  accuracy  in  every 
respect,  the  "  Life  of  Columb  is  "  was  not  ready  for  pub- 
lication until  February,  1828.  Mr.  Murray  paid  him  three 
thousand  guineas  for  the  English  copyright.  This  large 
honorarium  was  paid  not  without  protests  from  some  of 
Murray's  friends.  Robert  Southey  thought  the  work  "  to 
have  been  compiled  with  great  industry  and  to  be  well 
conceived  and  likely  to  succeed  because  it  was  interesting 
and  useful ;  "  but  he  criticized  it,  saying :  "  There  is  neither 
much  power  of  mind  nor  much  knowledge  indicated  in 
it."  Mr.  Sharon  Turner  wrote :  "  What  has  it  of  that  su- 
perb degree  as  to  make  it  fully  safe  for  you  to  give  the 
price  you  intend  for  it?     I  see  no  novelty  of  fact,  and 


■J 


22 


'iHE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


though  much  ability,  yet  not  that  overwhelming  talent 
whicli  will  give  a  very  gr-^'t  circulation  to  so  trite  a  sub- 
ject." 

These  prognostications  were  realized.  It  was  pub- 
lished in  February,  1828,  in  four  large  octavo  volumes ; 
three  yeara  later  Murray  wrote  to  Irving :  "  The  publica- 
tion of  'Cclumbus'  cost  me,  paper,  printing,  .vivertisiiig 
and  author,  .£5,700;  and  it  has  produced  but  .£4,700." 

From  a  literary  standpoint  its  success  was  greater  than 
the 'author  anticipated;  and  he  wrote  an  abridgment  of 
it  which  Mr.  Charles  Dudley  Warner  avers  he  presented 
to  John  Murray  and  was  very  successful,  the  fii-st  edition 
of  ten  thousand  copies  selling  immediately. 

In  March,  1828,  Mr.  Irving  started  with  two  intimate 
friends  to  make  a  tour  through  the  most  beautiful  part  of 
Andalusia.  They  visited  Cordova,  Granada,  Malaga,  and 
Seville.  In  Seville  Mr.  Irving  remained  over  a  year,  and 
here  he  wrote  the  "  Chronicle  of  the  Conquest  of  Granada." 
This  work,  although  considered  by  the  autlior  as  the  best 
of  all  his  works,  and  regarded  by  critical  authorities  as  a 
"masterpiece  of  romantic  narrative,"  did  not  receive  the 
popularity  necessary  to  encourage  him  to  continue  in  the 
same  direction.  The  manuscript  was  sent  by  Irving  to 
his  friend  an^.  representative  Colonel  A  spin  wall,  who  seems 
to  have  sounded  various  Lor  don  publishers  in  order  to 
secure  the  most  favorable  terms.  The  Reverend  Sanuiel 
Smiles,  D.D.,  says :  "  Murray,  not  liking  to  see  the  works 
of  the  famous  author  go  into  the  hands  of  other  j)nb- 
lishers,  offered  a  large  sum  for  the  '  Conquest  of  Granada ' 
—  not  less  than  two  thousand  guineas,  though  it  as  well 
as  the  'Columbus  '  had  been  published  in  America  before 
they  appeared  in  England,  and  were  tlierefon;  devoid  of  all 
loyal  protection."  liOckhart  wrote  Murray  concerning  the 
manuscript  of  it:  "My  impression  is  that  with  much  ele- 


4 


gance,  tho 
add,  of  fee 
war,  in  thi 
he  added : 
ligible  his 
in  Europe 
standard  \ 

Mu:ray 
gun  to  pal 
bility  of  1( 
your  forel 
have  the  s 
you  not  tl 
the  public 
mi:"d  his 
he  ended 
might  be 
publicatioi 

In  two 
the  "Gra 
guineas. 

In  May 
bra,  takinj 
tors.     Hei 
Spain,"  bi 
During  hii 
tion  cf  hit 
don.     A t 
urgency  o 
ingly,  he 
night  on 
again  cont 
years  elap 
1830,  on  h 


TB^  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


23 


gance,  tlio'e  is  mixed  a  good  deal  of  affectation  —  I  must 
add,  of  feebleness.  He  is  not  the  man  to  paint  tumultuous 
war,  in  the  lifetime  of  Scott,  when  Byron  is  fresh."  But 
he  added:  "This,  however,  will  be  the  only  complete  intel- 
ligible history  of  the  downfall  of  the  last  Moorish  power 
in  P^urope,  and  tiierefore  a  valuable,  and  I  doubt  not,  a 
staiidaid  work." 

Murray  v/rcte  to  Irving,  hinting  that  his  works  had  be- 
gun to  pail  on  the  public  taste  and  that  there  was  a  proba- 
bility of  loss.  Irving  replied :  *'  I  have  been  annoyed  by 
your  forebodings  of  ill  success  to  this  work ;  when  you 
have  the  spirit  to  give  a  large  price  for  a  work,  wliy  have 
you  not  the  spirit  to  go  manfully  through  with  it  until 
the  public  voice  determines  its  fate  ?  "  And  he  called  to 
mi;>d  liis  first  doubts  regarding  "  The  Sketch-Book  ;  "  but 
he  ended  with  an  expression  of  his  wish  that  Murray 
might  be  relieved  of  such  apprehensions  of  loss  in  the 
publication  of  his  works. 

In  two  years  Murray  reported  to  Irving  that  his  loss  on 
the  "  Granada "  had  amounted  to  about  twelve  hundred 
guineas. 

In  May,  1829,  Irving  left  Seville  and  visited  the  Alham- 
bra,  taking  up  his  residence  there  in  the  governor's  quar- 
ters. Here  he  wrote  the  "  Legends  of  the  Conquest  of 
Spain,"  but  they  were  not  published  until  six  years  later. 
During  his  stay  at  the  Alhambra  he  received  the  informa- 
tion cf  liis  appointment  as  Secretary  of  Legation  to  Lon- 
don. At  first  he  hesitated  about  accepting  it,  but  on  the 
urgency  of  liis  friends  finally  decided  to  do  so.  Accord- 
ingly, he  left  Spain  for  London,  stopping  in  Paris  a  fort- 
night on  the  way.  Toward  the  close  of  this  year  he 
again  contemplated  writing  a  "  Life  of  Washington,"  but 
years  elapsed  before  the  idea  was  carried  out.  In  April, 
1830,  on  his  biithday,  the  author  received  the  news  tliat 


!l 


m 


24  THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 

the  Royal  Society  of  Literature  had  awarded  him  one  of 
their  fifty  guinea  gold  medals.  In  less  than  a  month  after 
this  he  found  himself  committed  for  the  degree  of  LL.D. 
from  the  Univereity  of  Oxford.  His  modesty  prevented 
him  from  ever  using  the  title,  hov^ever. 

Mr.  Irving  retired  from  the  legation  in  September,  1831, 
and  shortly  after  had  the  sad  pleasure  of  dining  with  Sir 
WaJter  Scott  for  the  last  time,  in  London.  Scott's  powers 
had  sadly  failed,  but  during  the  dinner  his  mind  would 
occasionally  brighten,  and  he  would  begin  some  story  in 
his  old  manner;  but  soon  his  head  would  sink  and  his 
countenance  fall,  as  he  saw  that  he  had  failed  in  his  at- 
tempt. After  dinner,  as  Scott  took  Irving's  arm  and 
grasped  his  cane  with  the  ether  hand,  he  said,  '•  Ah  I  the 
times  are  changed,  my  good  fellow,  since  we  went  over 
the  Eildon  hills  together.  It  is  all  nonsense  to  cell  a  man 
that  his  mind  is  not  affected,  when  his  body  is  in  this 
state." 

In  January,  1832,  Mr.  Irving  revisited  Newstead  Abbey, 
and  was  lodged  in  Lord  Byron's  room.  In  April  he  sailed 
for  New  York,  and  reached  hor>e  after  a  voyage  of  forty 
days. 

A  cordial  reception  awaited  him.  In  a  letter  to  his 
brother  Peter,  he  :.ells  how  he  was  absolutely  over- 
whelmed with  the  welcome  and  felicitations  of  his  friends. 
It  seemed  to  him  as  i^  all  the  old  standers  of  the  city  had 
called  on  him;  and  he  was  continually  thrown  among  old 
associates,  who,  he  thanked  God,  had  borne  the  wear  and 
tear  of  seventeen  years  surprising!}  and  were  all  in  good 
health,  good  looks,  and  good  circumstances.  He  was  de- 
lighted with  the  increased  beauty  and  multiplied  conve- 
niences and  delights  of  the  city,  and  his  return  home 
seemed  to  him  wonderfully  exciting.  He  immediately 
entered  into  "a  tumult  of  enjoyment;"  and  was  pleased 


*«? 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINQTON  IRVING. 


25 


forty 


with  everything  and  everybody,  and  as  happy  as  mortal 
I       being  could  be.  ;  ..  ,  .      \J 

f  His  early  friends  and  townsmen  gave  him  a  public  din- 

||  ner,  which  was  pronounced  the  most  successful  public 
' :  banquet  ever  given  in  the  United  States,  and  it  was  long 
I  remembered  for  its  brilliancy.  Nearly  tliree  hundred 
I  guests  were  present.  The  fact  that  a  speech  would  be 
I  expected  of  him  made  Irving  very  nervous,  as  he  was 
wholly  unpractised  in  public  speaking;  but  he  not  only 
"  got  on  well,  but  with  real  eloquence." 

Three  weeks  after  his  arrival  in  his  own  country,  "  The 
Alhambra"  was  published  by  Messrs.  Carey  &  Lea;  but 
it  seems  that  it  appeared  in  England,  and  possibly  a  trans- 
lation in  France,  previous  to  this  date.  He  had  not  suc- 
ceeded, however,  in  making  a  bargain  with  any  London 
bookseller  at  the  beginning  of  the  year.  He  wrote  in 
February,  that  the  book-trade  was  in  such  a  de})lorable 
state  that  he  hardly  knew  where  to  turn.  "Some,"  lie 
said,  "  are  disabled,  and  all  disheartened."  "  The  Alham- 
bra "  wd'-z  dedicated  to  David  Wilkie,  the  painter,  who  had 
cften  been  his  companion  in  Spain.  His  first  returns  from 
it  were  about  nine  thousand  dollars. 

Soon  atter  this  Mr.  Irving  contemplated  a  tour  in  the 
western  part  of  the  State  of  New  York,  and  through  Ohio, 
Kentucky,  and  Tennessee ;  but  his  plans  were  changed,  and 
he  finally  undertook  an  extensive  journey  to  the  far  West 
with  one  of  the  three  commissioners  appointed  by  the 
Government  to  trade  with  the  Indians.  The  fruit  of  his 
visit  to  the  Pawnee  country  was,  "  A  Tour  on  the  Prai- 
ries," the  first  of  a  series  of  volumes  under  the  general  title 
of  "  Miscellanies,"  and  some  other  sketches  of  the  West. 
On  liis  way  home  he  spent  three  months  in  Washington. 
Tlie  following  July,  after  spending  some  time  in  Tarry- 
town  and  Saratoga  Springs,  he  passed  a  day  in  visiting 


26 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IJtVlNO. 


r      T! 


the  old  Dutch  villages  in  the  region  of  the  Catskill 
Mountains,  where  the  scenes  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  had  been 
laid  and  which  he  now  explored  for  the  first  time.  It  is 
an  amusing  fact  in  this  connection  that  many  years  after- 
wards Irving  received  a  letter  from  a  boy  at  Catskill  tell- 
ing him  that  he  had  lately  been  engaged  in  arguing  vvitli 
a  very  old  gentleman  "  whether,  in  the  beautiful  tale  of 
'  Rip  Van  Winkle,'  he  referred  to  the  village  of  Catskill, 
or  Kingston,"  and  requesting  him  to  settle  the  vexed 
question.  "  He  little  dreamt,"  said  Irving,  as  he  exhibited 
the  letter,  "  when  I  wrote  the  story,  I  had  never  been  on 
the  Catskills." 

The  second  number  of  the  "Crayon  Miscellany"  con- 
tained "Abbotsford"  and  "  Newstead  Abbey,"  and  came 
out  in  May,  1835.  The  third  number,  called  "  Legends 
of  the  Conquest  of  Spain,"  was  published  in  October. 
About  this  time  Irving  was  also  preparing,  with  the 
aid  of  his  nephew  Pierre  Irving,  a  work  for  John  Jacob 
Astor,  called  "Astoria."  It  was  on  the  subject  of  Mr. 
Astor's  settlement  called  by  that  name,  at  the  mouth 
of  the  Columbia  River.  While  at  work  upon  this,  Irving 
spent  much  of  his  time  at  the  Astor  country-seat,  opposite 
Hellgate.  The  volume  was  published  in  October,  1836. 
Irving  received  four  thousand  dollars  from  Carey  &  Lea 
for  the  right  of  printing  five  thousand  copies,  and  five 
hundred  pounds  from  Bentley  in  London. 

The  author  had  not  only  himself  to  support,  but  also  liis 
two  brothers,  Peter  and  Ebenezer ;  so  although  he  had  re- 
ceived large  sums  for  his  works,  he  was  obliged  to  be  in- 
dustrious. Moreover,  he  longed  to  make  a  home  for  him- 
self and  his  brother  Peter,  who  crossed  the  ocean  to  join 
him  in  April.  He  bought  a  small  farm  on  the  bank  of  the 
river  at  Tarrytown,  near  his  old  Sleepy  Hollow  haunt, 
and  one  of  the  most  beautiful  situations  on  the  Hudson. 


'  ^,o,«'-r- 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


27 


There  was  a  small  stone  Dutch  cottage  on  the  place ;  and 
this  he  enlarged,  still  retaining  the  quaint  Dutch  charac- 
teristics. He  added  a  tower,  and  a  weathercock  brought 
from  Holland ;  and  it  became  one  of  the  most  picturesque 
residences  on  the  river.  At  first  his  intention  was  to  have 
merely  a  summer  retreat,  and  he  called  the  place  the 
"  Roost,"  but  afterwards  it  was  named  "Sunnyside ; "  and  it 
proved  to  be  the  dearest  spot  on  earth  to  hi-n,  and  one 
where  he  passed  nearly  all  of  the  remainder  c  his  years. 

In  January,  1837,  we  find  Irving  alone  with  his  brother 
Peter,  in  the  cottage  dressed  in  Christmas  greens,  and 
completely  settled  in  it.  Here  he  was  exercising  his  pen, 
and  working  on  "The  Adventures  of  Captain  Bonneville, 
U.S.A.,  in  the  Rocky  Mountains  of  the  Far  West,"  a 
supplementary  work  to  "Astoria."  Irving  first  met  this 
gentleman  at  Mr.  As  tor's  country-seat,  in  1835.  He 
met  him  again  later  on  in  Washington,  and  found  him 
rewriting  and  extending  the  notes  he  had  made  in  trav- 
elling, uiid  making  maps  of  the  regions  he  had  visited.  He 
paid  him  one  thousand  dollars  for  the  manuscripts,  and 
undertook  to  prepare  them  for  puMication.  These  manu- 
scripts formed  the  basis  of  the  work,  though  other  facts 
and  details  were  interwoven ;  and  to  the  whole  he  gave  a 
tone  and  color  drawn  from  his  own  experiences  during  his 
tour  on  the  prairies.  For  this  work  he  received  three 
thousand  dollars  from  Carey,  Lea,  &  Co.,  and  nine  hun- 
dred pounds  from  Bentley  in  London. 

While  this  work  was  going  through  the  press,  Irving 
attended  a  complimentary  entertainment,  given  by  the 
booksellei's  of  New  York  to  authors  jvnd  other  literary 
and  distinguished  men.  William  Cullen  Bryant,  Fitz- 
Green  Halleck,  the  Rev.  Orville  Dewey,  Judge  Irving, 
and  others  were  present. 

One  of   the  memorable  events  of  1837  at  the  cottage 


28 


THE  LIFS  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


I 


I 


ii* 


was  a  visit  from  Louis  Napoleon.  After  being  a  prisoner 
of  state  for  several  months  on  board  a  French  man-of-war, 
he  was  released  and  set  on  shore  at  Norfolk,  early  in  the 
spring.  From  Norfolk  he  went  to  New  York,  where  he 
spent  two  months,  during  which  he  visited  the  ''  Roost," 
accompanied  by  a  young  French  count,  and  escorted  by 
M.  Anthony  Constant. 

A  large  proportion  of  Mr.  Irving's  funds  was  at  this 
time  locked  up  in  unfruitful  land-purchases,  so  that  it  was 
an  anxious  problem  to  him  to  know  how  to  derive  an  in- 
come sufficient  to  meet  the  expenses  of  the  cottage,  which 
from  being  a  bachelor-nest  had  assumed  the  character  of  a 
mansion.  Ebenezer  decided  to  give  up  his  town-house,  and 
both  he  and  Peter  were  to  become  permanent  inmates  of 
the  "Roost."  On  the  twenty-seventh  of  June,  however, 
Mr.  Irving  received  one  of  the  severest  blows  of  his  life 
by  the  death  of  his  brother  Peter,  whicli  came  close  upon 
that  of  his  brother  John.  How  deeply  he  felt  this  loss  is 
shown  in  a  letter  to  Mrs.  Van  Wart,  his  sister : 

Every  day,  every  hour,  he  said,  he  felt  how  completely 
Peter  and  he  had  been  intertwined  together  in  the  whole 
course  of  their  existence.  The  very  circumstance  of  their 
both  having  never  been  married  bound  them  more  closely 
together.  While  Peter  was  living  he  had  not  been  con- 
scious how  much  this  was  the  case ;  but  now  that  his  brother 
was  gone,  he  felt  how  all-important  he  had  been  to  him. 
Though  he  was  surrounded  by  affectionate  relatives,  a 
dreary  feeling  of  loneliness  kept  coming  over  him  whicli  lie 
reasoned  against  in  vain ;  for  he  felt  that  no  one  could  ever 
be  what  he  was ;  no  one  could  take  so  thorough  an  interest 
in  his  concerns ;  to  no  one  could  he  so  confidingly  lay  open 
his  every  thought  and  feeling,  and  expose  every  fault  and 
foible,  certain  of  perfect  toleration  and  indulgence.  He 
declared  that  since  dear  mother's  death,  he  had  had  no  one 


J^, 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


29 


who  could  so  patiently  and  tenderly  bear  with  all  his 
weaknesses  and  infirmities,  and  throw  over  every  error  the 
mantle  of  affection.  "  I  cannot  open  a  book  or  take  up  a 
paper,"  he  said,  "  or  recall  a  past  vein  of  thought,  without 
having  him  instantly  before  me  and  finding  myself  com- 
pletely overcome." 

To  quote  Mr.  Charles  Dudley  Warner,  Mr.  Irving  "  was 
now  past  middle  life,  having  returned  to  New  York  in  his 
fiftieth  year ;  but  he  was  in  the  full  flow  of  literary  pro- 
ductiveness. The  first  crop  of  his  mind  was  of  course  the 
most  original ;  time  and  experience  had  toned  down  his 
exuberant  humor,  but  the  spring  of  his  fancy  was  as  free, 
his  vigor  was  not  aoated,  and  his  art  was  more  refined. 
Some  of  his  best  work  was  yet  to  be  done.  And  it  is 
worthy  of  passing  mention,  in  regard  to  his  later  produc- 
tions, that  his  admirable  sense  of  literary  proportion,  which 
is  wanting  in  many  goo  1  writers,  characterized  his  work  to 
the  end.  High  as  his  position  was  as  a  man  of  letters  at 
this  time,  the  consideration  in  which  he  was  held  was  much 
broader  than  that  —  it  was  that  of  one  of  the  first  citizens 
of  the  Republic.  His  friends,  readers,  and  admirers  were 
not  merely  the  literary  class  and  the  general  public,  but 
included  nearly  all  the  prominent  statesmen  of  the  time. 
Almost  any  career  in  public  life  would  have  been  open  to 
him  if  he  had  lent  an  ear  to  their  solicitations.  But  politi- 
cal life  was  not  to  his  taste,  and  it  would  have  been  fatal 
to  liis  sensitive  spirit." 

He  was  asked  to  be  mayor  of  New  York ;  to  accept  a 
seat  in  Congress,  and  to  become  Secretary  of  the  Navy  in 
Mr.  Van  Buren's  cabinet ;  but  he  declined  all  such  over- 
tures. 

In  1838  Irving  was  working  on  the  "History  of  the  Con- 
quest of  Mexico."  He  had  already  made  a  rough  outline 
of  the  first  volume  when  he  went  to  New  York  to   con- 


u 


30 


THE  LIFE  OF   WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


fl 


h 


1' 

1- 


^  i 


suit  the  libraries  on  the  subject.  While  tiiere  he  learned 
that  Mr.  Prescott,  who  had  been  winning  a  great  reputar 
tion  by  his  "History  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,"  was 
contemplating  the  work  which  he  had  actually  begun  ;  and 
he  at  once  abandoned  the  subject,  saying,  "  I  am  happy 
to  have  this  opportunity  of  testifying  my  high  esteem  for 
his  talents,  and  my  sense  of  the  very  courteous  manner  in 
which  he  has  spoken  of  myself  and  my  writings  in  his 
'Ferdinand  and  Isabella,'  though  they  interfered  with  a 
part  of  the  subject  of  his  history." 

But  he  did  not  surrender  this  glorious  theme  without  a 
pang.  In  a  letter  to  hk  nephew,  five  years  later,  he  wrote 
that  he  doubted  whether  Prescott  was  aware  of  the  extent 
of  the  sacrifice  he  had  made ;  for  it  had  been  a  favorite  sub- 
ject, which  had  delighted  his  imagination  ever  since  he 
was  a  boy.  He  had  brought  home  books  from  Spain  to  aid 
him  in  it,  and  looked  on  it  as  the  pendant  to  his  "  Colum- 
bus." He  declared  that  when  he  gave  it  uj)  to  him,  he,  in 
a  manner,  gave  up  his  bread;  for  he  had  depended  on  the 
profit  of  it  to  recruit  his  waning  finances,  and  that  if  ho 
had  accomplished  it,  his  whole  pecuniary  situation  would 
have  been  altered.  He  had  no  other  subject  at  hand  to 
supply  its  place,  but  was  dismounted  from  his  cheval  Je 
bataille,  and  he  complained  that  he  had  never  been  com- 
pletely mounted  since.  But  he  was  not  sorry  to  have 
made  the  sacrifice,  for  it  was  not  with  a  view  to  compli- 
ments or  thanks,  but  from  a  warm  and  sudden  inii)uhse ; 
and  he  felt  that  Prescott  had  justified  the  opinion  that  Ir- 
ving expressed  at  the  time  ;  that  he  would  treat  '  '^  subject 
with  closer  and  ampler  research  than  he  wouiu  ^  .  ably 
have  done. 

After  surrendering  the  subject  of  the  "Conquest  of 
Mexico"  to  Prescott,  Irving  was  persuaded  to  contribute 
monthly  to  the  Knickerbocker,  ?■  magazine  published  in 


New  Yori 
lars  a  yea: 
his  fancy 
arrangeme 
contnbuti< 
in  Spring, 
Bobolink,' 
the  Union 
a  "Biogra 
"  Biograph 
can  girl  "  < 
liad  died  i 
Irving  h 
well  undei 
expected  a 
seemed  less 
pa.n  of  bei 
down  the  r* 
—  very  hai 
wind  to  the 
The   apj 
Tylei''s  Seel 
apj)ointed  q 
made  his 
received  hi 
dinner  was 
sided.     Mr| 
twenty-thn 
describes  tl 

"I  was 
given  in  h| 
of  New  Yol 
but  were 
through  ar 


THE  LIFE  OF   WASIlINGTOy  IRVING. 


SI 


learned 

reputa- 

fi,"   was 

un ;  and 

happy 

eeni  for 

inner  in 

I  in  his 

with  a 

ithout  a 
lie  wrote 
e  extent 
rite  sub- 
since  he 
in  to  aid 
"Colum- 
in,  he,  in 
d  on  the 
lat  if  lie 
in  would 
,  hand  to 
cheval  de 
een  coni- 
to  have 
3  com  pi  i- 
impulse ; 
1  that  Ii- 
.?  subject 
l-<\,  ably 

iquest  of 
!ontribute 
)lished   in 


New  York.  For  this  he  was  to  receive  two  thousand  dol- 
lars a  year.  Irksome  as  it  was  to  be  obliged  to  draw  ou 
his  fancy  once  a  month  for  an  article,  he  continued  the 
arrangement  for  two  years.  The  most  happy  of  all  his 
contributions  to  the  periodical  was  probably  ''The  Birds 
ill  Spring,"  containing  the  charming  sketch  called  "The 
Bobolink,"  which  was  copied  into  almost  every  paper  in 
the  Union.  During  this  period  Mr.  Irving  also  wrote 
a  "Biography  of  Goldsmith,"  his  favorite  author,  and  a 
"  Biography  of  Margaret  Davidson,"  a  lovely  young  Amer- 
can  girl  "  of  surprising  precocity  of  poetical  talent,"  who 
had  died  in  the  very  flower  of  her  promise. 

Irving  had  begun  his  "Life  of  Washington,"  and  was 
well  under  way  with  it,  when  he  received  the  wholly  un- 
expected appointment  of  minister  to  Spain.  At  first  he 
seemed  less  impressed  by  the  honor  conferred  than  by  the 
pa.n  of  being  exiled  from  home ;  and  as  he  paced  up  and 
down  the  room,  he  murmured  to  his  nephew,  "  It  is  hard, 
—  very  hard,  yet  I  must  try  to  bear  it.  God  tempers  the 
wind  to  the  shorn  lamb" 

The  appointment  was  suggested  by  Daniel  Webster, 
Tyler's  Secretary  of  State.  Alexander  Hamilton,  Jr.,  was 
appointed  as  his  Secretary  of  Legation.  Charles  Diukens 
made  his  appearance  in  New  York  just  as  Mr.  Irving 
received  his  appointment  of  minister  to  Spain.  A  great 
dinner  was  given  to  Dickens,  and  Washington  Irving  pre- 
sided. Mrs.  Julia  Ward  Howe,  then  a  young  woman  of 
twenty-three,  was  present,  and  in  her  reminiscences  thus 
describes  the  occasion:  — 

"  I  was  present,  with  other  ladies,  at  a  public  dinner 
given  in  honor  of  Charles  Dickens  by  prominent  citizens 
of  New  York.  The  ladies  were  not  bidden  to  the  feast, 
but  were  allowed  to  occupy  a  small  ante-room  wliicli, 
through  an  open  door,  commanded  a  view  of  the  tables. 


%:'. 


32 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON   IttVlNa. 


,1 

•I 


When  the  speaking  was  about  to  begin,  a  message  canu; 
suggesting  that  we  should  take  possession  of  some  vacant 
seats  at  the  great  table.  This  wo  wore  glad  to  do. 
Washington  Irving  was  president  of  the  evening,  and 
upon  him  devolved  the  duty  of  inaugurating  the  pro- 
ceedings by  an  address  of  welcome  to  the  distinguished 
guest.     People  who  sat  near  me  whispered,  'He'll  break 

down, he  always  does.'      Mr.  Irving  rose  and  uttered 

a  sentence  or  two.  His  friends  interrupted  him  by  ap- 
plause, which  was  intended  to  encourage  liim,  but  whicl; 
entirely  overthrew  his  self-possession.  He  hesitated, 
stammered,  and  sat  down,  saying,  'I  cannot  go  on.'  It 
was  an  embarrassing  and  painful  moment;  but  Mr.  John 
Duer,  an  eminent  lawyer,  came  to  his  fritjnd's  assistance, 
and  with  suitable  remarks  proposed  the  health  of  Charkv. 
Dickens,  to  which  Mr.  Dickens  promptly  responded. 
This  he  did  in  his  happiest  manner,  covering  Mr.  Irving'.s 
defeat  by  a  glowing  eulogy  of  his  literary  merits. 

"'Whose  books  do  I  take  to  bed  with  me,  night  after 
night?  Washington  Irving's,  as  one  who  is  present  can 
testify.'  This  one  was  evidently  Mrs.  Dickens,  who  was 
seated  beside  me."  ' 

Irving  declined  a  public  dinner  in  New  York  on  the 
eve  of  his  departure,  and  aLo  the  same  hospitality  offered 
in  Liverpool  and  Glasgow.  After  visiting  his  sister 
in  Birmingham,  and  spending  some  time  in  Paris,  he 
finally  reached  Madrid,  July  25,  1842.  The  affairs  of 
Spain  at  this  time  had  become  intensely  dramatic,  a  con- 
dition that  continued  as  long  as  Mr.  Irving  remained  in 
the  country,  and  gave  intense  interest  to  his  diplomatic 
life.  The  duties  which  he  had  to  j)erform  were  un- 
usual and  difficult,  but  he  acquitted  himself  with  rare 
skill  and  judgment.  He  was  at  one  time  called  to  Lon- 
don to  consult  in  regard  to  the  Oregon   boundary    dis- 


,«f 


a 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


33 


pute,  and  rendered  valuable  assistance  in  settling  the 
question. 

The  following  is  a  portion  of  Mr.  Irving 's  description 
of  his  first  audience  with  the  queen :  — 

"  It  being  signified  to  us  that  the  queen  would  receive  us 
at  the  royal  palace,  we  drove  thither,  but  had  to  wait  some 
time  in  the  apartment  of  Count  Almodovar.  After  a  while 
we  had  notice  that  the  queen  was  prepared  to  receive  us. 
We  accordingly  passed  through  the  spacious  court,  up  the 
noble  staircase,  and  through  the  long  suites  of  apartments 
of  this  splendid  edifice,  most  of  them  silent  and  vacant, 
the  casements  closed  to  keep  out  the  heat,  so  that  a  twi- 
light reigned  throughout  the  mighty  pile,  not  a  little 
emblematical  of  the  dubious  fortunes  of  its  inmates.  It 
seemed  more  like  traversing  a  convent  than  a  palace.  I 
ought  to  have  mentioned,  that  on  ascending  the  grand 
staircase,  we  found  the  portal  at  the  head  of  it,  opening 
into  the  royal  suite  of  apartments,  still  bearing  the  marks 
of  the  midnight  attack  upon  the  palace  in  October  last, 
when  an  attempt  was  made  to  get  possession  of  the  per- 
sons of  the  little  queen  and  her  sister,  to  carry  them  off. 
The  marble  casements  of  the  doors  had  been  shattered  in 
several  places,  and  the  double  doors  themselves  pierced  all 
over  with  bullet  holes,  from  the  musketry  that  played  upon 
them  from  the  staircase  during  that  eventful  night.  What 
must  have  been  the  feelings  of  those  poor  children,  on  lis- 
tening, from  their  apartment,  to  the  horrid  tumult,  —  the 
outcries  of  a  furious  multitude,  and  the  reports  of  fire- 
arms echoing  and  reverberating  through  the  vaulted  halls 
and  spacious  courts  of  this  immense  edifice,  —  and  dubi- 
ous whether  their  own  lives  were  not  the  object  of  the 
assault ! 

"  After  passing  through  various  chambers  of  the  palace, 
now  silent  and  sombre,  but  which  I  had  traversed  in  former 


m 

11 

i 

34 


TEE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


Il 


dayd,  on  grand  court  occasions  in  the  time  of  Ferdinand 
VII.v  when  they  were  glittering  with  all  the  splendor  of 
a  court,  we  paused  in  a  great  saloon,  with  high-vaulted 
ceiling  incrusted  with  florid  devices  in  porcelain,  and  hung 
with  silken  tapestry,  but  all  in  dim  twilight,  like  the  rest  of 
the  palace ;  at  one  end  of  the  saloon  the  door  opened  to 
an  almost  interminable  range  of  other  chambers,  through 
which,  at  a  distance,  we  had  a  glimpse  of  some  indistinct 
figures  in  black.     They  glided  into  the  saloon  slowly,  and 
with  noiseless  steps.     Ifc  was  the  little  queen,  with  her 
governess,  Madame  Mina,  widow  of  the  general  of  that 
name,  and  her  guardian,  the  excellent  Arguelles,  all  in 
deep  mourning  for  the  Duke  of  Orleans.     The  little  queen 
advanced  some  steps  within  the  saloon  and  then  paused. 
Madame  Mina  took  her  station  a  little  distance  behind  her. 
The  Count  Almodovar  then  introduced  me  to  the  queen 
in  my  official  capacity ;  and  she  received  me  with  a  grave 
and  quiet  welcome,  expressed  in  a  very  low  voice.     She 
is  nearly  twelve  years  of  age,  and  is  sufficiently  well-grown 
for  her  years.    She  had  a  somewhat  fair  complexion,  quite 
pale,  with  bluish  and  light-gray  eyes ;  a  grave  demeanor, 
but  a  graceful  deportment.    I  could  not  but  regard  her 
with  deep  interest,  knowing  what  important  concerns  de- 
pended upon  the  life  of  this  fragile  little  being,  and  to 
what  a  stormy  and  precarious  career  she  might  be  des- 
tined." 

While  in  Madrid,  Irving  was  attacked  by  the  inflamma- 
tory disease  of  thg  skin  from  which  he  had  suffered  twenty 
years  before,  but  this  time  it  was  much  more  severe.  It 
was  the  result  of  overwork,  with  too  little  exercise.  Jle 
was  compelled  to  give  up  working  on  his  "  Life  of  Wash- 
ington,"  as  the  least  mental  excitement  aggravated  the 
symptoms  and  he  was  unable  to  resume  the  task  until  his 
return  to  America.     Being  urged  by  his  physician  to  try 


li 


TBE  LIFE  OF  WA8HINQT0N  IBVINO. 


S5 


a  change  of  air  for  the  trouble  in  his  ankles,  he  made  an 
excursion  to  France.  He  was  absent  nearly  three  months  ; 
but  he  brought  the  malady  back  with  him  again,  and  con- 
tinued to  suffer  for  some  time  longer. 

In  December,  1845,  Irving  sent  home  his  resignation 
from  the  court  of  Madrid ;  and  the  following  July  General 
Romulus  M.  Saunders,  of  North  Carolina,  arrived  in  Spain 
as  his  successor.  In  April,  1845,  on  the  day  before  his 
sixty -second  birthday,  he  wrote,  expressing  his  longing  to 
be  once  more  back  at  "  dear  little  Sunnyside,"  while  he  yet 
liad  strength  and  good  spirits  to  enjoy  the  simple  pleasures 
of  the  country,  and  to  rally  a  happy  family  group  once  more 
about  him.  He  declared  that  he  grudged  every  year  of 
absence  that  rolled  by.  "  The  evening  of  life,"  he  said,  "  is 
fast  drawing  over  me  ;  still  I  hope  to  get  back  among  my 
friends  while  there  is  yet  a  little  sunshine  left." 

On  the  eighteenth  of  August,  1846,  he  bade  farewell 
forever  to  European  shores,  and  sailed  for  Boston  on  the 
Cambria.  He  reached  his  home  on  the  nineteenth  of  Sep- 
tember ;  and  his  first  concern  was  to  build  an  addition  to 
liis  cottage,  which  was  quite  too  cramped  for  the  number 
of  its  inmates.  While  occupied  with  this  new  building, 
Irving  spent  all  his  leisure  in  preparing  a  complete  edition 
of  his  works,  with  corrections,  alterations,  and  additions, 
with  a  view  to  getting  liis  literary  property  into  a  condi- 
tion to  yield  him  a  yearly  income.  In  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Kenible,  he  says  that  the  new  pagoda  was  one  of  the  most 
useful  additions  that  ever  was  made  to  a  house,  besides 
being  so  ornamental ;  for  it  gave  him  a  laundry,  store- 
rooms, pantries,  servants'  rooms,  coal-cellar,  and  other 
rooms,  converting  what  was  once  "rather  a  make-shift 
little  mansion,"  into  one  of  the  most  complete  snuggeries 
in  the  country  He  jestingly  remarked  that  the  only 
part  of  it  that  was  not  adapted  to  some  valuable  purpose 


ml 


86 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING, 


I 


ll 


was  the  cupola,  which  had  no  bell  in  it,  and  was  about  as 
serviceable  as  the  feather  in  one's  cap. 

In  the  autumn  of  1847  we  find  Irving  hard  at  work  on 
his  "  History  of  Washington ; "  and  early  in  the  following 
year  he  went  for  a  prolonged  visit  to  New  York,  to  be 
within  reach  of  the  libraries.  A  portion  of  this  time  was 
spent  as  the  guest  of  John  Jacob  Astor,  then  eighty-four 
years  of  age.  Irving  had  often  urged  him  to  begin  his 
noble  project  of  the  Astor  library,  but  it  was  left  to  be 
carried  out  after  his  death. 

At  this  time  the  author  was  very  much  disturbed  by  a 
plan  which  was  proposed,  to  run  a  railroad  along  the  east- 
ern bank  of  the  Hudson  River.  Besides  desecrating  the 
beautiful  shore,  it  threatened  his  little  cottage,  by  coming 
to  its  very  door,  and  would  forever  mar  its  charm  of  quiet 
and  retirement.  He  was  in  despair  when  it  was  decided 
to  carry  out  this  scheme,  but  when  he  found  that  it  was 
inevitable  he  tried  to  make  the  best  of  it.  As  it  was  car- 
ried some  distance  out  into  the  river,  he  was  spared  the 
pain  of  having  the  railroad  cross  his  grounds ;  and  the  trees 
on  the  bank  formed  a  screen,  which  he  hoped  would  soon 
hide  it  from  view.  In  adjustment  of  the  damages,  the  rail- 
road company  paid  him  thirty-five  hundred  dollars.  On 
receiving  the  first  payment,  he  observed:  "Why,  I  am 
harder  on  them  than  the  wagoner  was  on  Giles  Ginger- 
bread ;  for  he  let  him  walk  all  the  way  to  London  along- 
side of  his  wagon  without  charging  him  anything,  while  I 
make  them  pay  for  only  passing  my  door." 

In  1848  Irving  made  arrangements  for  a  collected  edition 
of  his  works,  and  was  for  the  rest  of  his  life  assured  a  hand- 
some income.  On  the  eighteenth  of  August  he  brought 
home  to  the  cottage  a  copy  of  the  revised  edition  of 
"  Knickerbocker's  History  of  New  York,"  and  on  the  same 
day  he  brought  home  a  picture  which  had  strongly  im- 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


37 


pressed  him.  It  was  Ary  Scheffer's  "  Christus  Consolator," 
engraved  by  Dupont.  It  first  attracted  his  attention  in 
the  window  of  a  German  shop  in  Broadway,  and  the  tears 
filled  his  eyes  as  lie  looked  at  it  without  knowing  whose  it 
was.  Finding  that  it  was  by  Scheffer,  he  immediately 
went  in  and  bought  it.  In  the  autumn  of  this  year  he 
united  with  the  Episcopal  Church. 

The  following  yeai  Irving  dropped  his  "  Life  of  Wash- 
ington "  to  take  up  the  "  Life  of  Goldsmith,"  which  he  fin- 
ished within  sixty  days.  "  Everything  combines  to  make 
this  one  of  the  most  fascinating  pieces  of  biography  in  the 
English  i.inguage,"  said  the  New  York  Tribune.  "Mr. 
Irving  was  in  possession  of  abundant  materials  to  do  jus- 
tice to  tlie  subject.  He  had  only  to  insert  his  exquisite 
magnetic  needle  into  the  mass,  to  give  a  choice  and 
shapely  form  to  all  that  was  valuabl  in  the  labore  of  pre- 
vious biographers.  He  lias  done  this  in  a  manner  which 
leaves  nothing  to  be  desired.  With  a  genial  admiration  of 
Goldsmith,  with  a  cordial  appreciation  of  the  spirit  of  his 
writings,  and  with  many  similar  intellectual  tendencies, 
lie  has  portrayed  the  varied  picture  ot  his  life  with  a  grace 
and  elegance  that  make  his  narrative  as  charming  a  piece 
of  composition  as  can  be  found  in  the  whole  range  of  his 
foimer  works.  He  hf-s  added  a  new  enchantment  to  the 
potent  spell  with  which  he  always  binds  the  hearts  of  his 
readers." 

The  first  volume  of  "  Mahomet  and  his  Successors,"  ap- 
peared in  December,  although  it  had  been  advertised  to 
come  out  at  the  beginning  of  the  year.  The  second 
volume  was  published  the  following  April.  Irving  was 
most  desirous  to  continue  his  "  Life  of  Washington," 
which  had  been  interrupted.  "  All  I  fear,"  he  said  to  his 
nephew,  "is  to  fail  in  health,  and  fail  in  completing  this 
work  at  the  same  time.     If  I  can  only  live  to  finish  it,  I 


I 


i-il 


^!   : 


would  be  willing  to  die  the  next  moment.  I  think  I  can 
make  it  a  most  interesting  book --can  give  interest  and 
strength  to  many  points  without  any  prostration  of  historic 
dignity.  If  I  had  only  ten  years  more  of  life  I  I  never 
felt  more  able  to  write.  I  might  not  conceive  as  I  did  in 
earlier  days,  when  1  had  more  romance  of  feeling,  but  I 
could  execute  with  more  rapidity  and  freedom." 

One  day  in  July,  1850,  Irving  was  taken  with  chills 
while  in  the  cars  on  his  way  to  New  York,  and  this  proved 
to  be  the  warning  of  a  serious  illness.  The  fever  made 
such  progress  that  Dr.  Delafield,  a  celebrated  physician 
from  New  York,  who  happened  to  be  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  river,  was  called  in,  and  Mr.  Irving  made  his  will, 
prepared  for  the  worst.  The  skilful  treatment  he  received, 
however,  soon  brought  about  a  change  for  the  better ;  and 
in  a  few  days  the  patient  was  out  of  danger,  although  very 
weak.  The  following  autumn  he  had  the  pleasure  of  hear- 
in »  Jenny  Lind,  and  wrote  to  Miss  Hamilton  that  he 
had  seen  and  heard  her,  the  "Priestess  of  Nature,"  but 
once,  but  at  once  enroUed  himself  among  her  admirers. 
He  did  not  feel  able  to  say,  however,  how  much  of  his  ad- 
miration went  to  her  singing,  how  much  to  herself.  As  a 
singer,  she  appeared  to  him  of  the  very  first  order ;  as  a 
specimen  of  womankind,  a  little  more.  He  declared  that 
she  was  enough  of  herself  to  counterbalance  all  the  evil 
that  the  world  was  threatened  with  by  the  great  conven- 
tion of  women.     "So  God  save  Jenny  Lind  !  " 

In  May,  1852,  Irving  wrote  to  Mrs.  Storrow  complaining 
because  his  "  Life  of  Washington,"  lagged  and  dragged  on 
account  of  interruptions  caused  by  bilious  attacks.  He 
was  disinclined  to  tear  himself  away  from  the  quiet  and 
retirement  of  home ;  but  he  felt  that  such  a  tendency  to 
settle  aown  ought  to  be  resisted,  lest  he  should  grow  rusty 
or  fusty  or  crusty.    But  he  could  not  help  justifying  h  s 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASUINO.TON  IRVING. 


89 


delight  in  lolling  in  the  shade  of  the  trees  he  had  planted, 
feeling  the  sweet  southern  breeze  stealing  up  tlie  green 
banks,  and  looking  out  with  half-dreamy  eye  on  the  beauti- 
ful scenery  of  the  Hudson,  building  castles  in  the  clouls 
as  he  had  built  them  in  his  boyhood. 

"  Blessed  retirement !  "  he  exclaimed ;  "  friend  to  life's 
decline  ! "  and  he  went  off  into  a  deeply -felt  rhapsody  o^^ 
his  good  fortune  in  being  able  so  completely  to  realize 
what  had  been  the  mere  picturing  of  his  fancy. 

In  1855  Irving  brought  out  the  collection  of  sketches 
entitled  "  Wolfert's  Roost,"  which  elicited  the  warmest 
commendation  from  the  press  on  both  sides  of  the  Atlantic. 
The  title  was  derived  from  the  first  name  given  to  Sunny- 
side,  the  "Roost "  or  "  Rest  of  Wolfert  Acker,"  one  of  Peter 
Stuyvesant's  privy  councillors,  who  had  retreated  to  tliat 
point  on  the  Hudson  after  the  subjugation  of  New  Am- 
sterdam. The  first  volume  of  the  "  Life  of  Washington  " 
soon  followed.  He  had  finished  correcting  the  proofs  when 
his  horse  Dick,  on  which  he  was  riding,  became  unmanage- 
able, and  threw  him  violently  to  the  ground.  No  bones 
were  broken,  but  he  was  bruised  and  wrenched.  He  wrote 
a  friend  that,  thanks  to  his  hard  head  and  strong  chest,  he 
had  withstood  a  shock  that  would  have  staved  in  a  sensi- 
tively constructed  man.  He  said  his  head  came  nigh  being 
forced  down  into  his  chest,  "  like  the  end  of  a  telescope." 
But  on  the  third  day  he  got  up,  and  dressed  and  shaved 
himself. 

The  year  1857  was  disastrous  to  trade,  and  Irving  bought 
back  the  stereotype  plates  of  his  collected  works,  which 
had  brought  him  in  about  $80,000  in  nine  years.  At  this 
time  he  was  troubled  with  an  obstiiiate  catarrh,  which  in- 
duced serious  deafness  and  i  shortness  of  breath.  He  was 
also  afflicted  with  a  peculiar  form  of  drowsiness.  Often 
at  dinner  — even  at  public  dinners  —  his  head  would  droop 


if 


f 


»l 


40 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


and  he  would  have  a  nap  which  would  last  several  min- 
utes, and  then  rousing  proceed  with  conversation  seeming 
perfectly  unaware  that  he  had  thus  relapsed  into  uncon- 
sciousness. 

By  January,  1859,  he  had  succeeded  in  completing  and 
revising  the  fifth  and  last  volume  of  his  "Washington;  " 
but  his  nervous  system  was  greatly  shattered,  and  he  was 
troubled  by  insomnia  and  strange  feelings  of  dismay  and 
dread,  which  enough  medicine  "  to  put  a  whole  congrega- 
tion to  sleep "  could  not  overcome.  On  Monday,  the 
twenty-eighth  of  November,  as  he  was  retiring  for  the 
night,  his  niece  Sarah,  who  went  into  his  room  to  place 
his  medicines  within  easy  reach,  hoard  him  exclaim :  — 

"Well,  I  must  arrange  my  pillows  for  another  weary 
night,"  and  then  a  half-stifled  exclamation,  "  When  will 
this  end?" 

At  the  same  instant  he  pressed  his  hand  to  his  side,  and 
fell  backward  to  the  floor.  He  had  passed  away  instan- 
taneously from  enlargement  of  the  heart. 

When  the  news  of  his  death  was  announced  in  New 
York  flags  were  hung  at  half-mast,  and  many  public  bodies 
made  allusion  to  the  event,  or  passed  resolutions  of  re- 
spect. He  was  buried  in  the  beautiful  graveyard  over- 
looking the  scenes  he  had  loved  and  made  immortal ; 
the  ugh  so  late  in  the  year,  it  was  a  lovely  Indian  sum- 
mer day,  typical  of  the  close  of  a  long  and  blameless 
life. 

His  works  can  hardly  be  said  to  have  suffered  any 
eclipse  in  popularity.  Though  his  style  was  formed  on 
the  smooth  and  somewhat  artificial  example  of  Goldsmith 
and  Addison,  his  humor  was  thoroughly  modern  and  vital. 
When  one  thinks  of  the  dreary  productions  that  passed 
for  literature  in  America  previous  to  the  appearance  of 
"Knickerbocker,"  poems   like   Wiggles  worth's  "Day  of 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


41 


Doom,"  with  its  ghastly  pictures  of  a  future  state,  long- 
winded  controversial  sermons,  biographies  unenlivened  by 
a  touch  of  nature ;  when  one  thinks  of  the  grave  solemnity 
superinduced  by  the  theological  tendencies  of  Puritanism, 
and  how  few  flowers  of  humor  or  wit  can  be  gathered  in 
all  the  years  since  Plymouth  was  settled,  it  is  not  strange 
that  types  so  individual,  so  comical,  so  natural,  so  human 
in  spite  of  their  good-natured  exaggerations,  as  the  "  Myn- 
heers of  Manhattan,"  or  "  Rip  Van  Winkle,"  should  have 
taken  the  literary  world  by  storm.  One  can  readily  see 
the  influence  of  "  Don  Quixote  "  on  Irving's  imagination. 
But,  nevertheless,  the  humor  is  original  and  fresh. 

He  did  more  than  create  types.  He  peopled  the  Hud- 
son with  legends.  The  Highlands  along  the  noble  river 
were  as  bare  of  Fancy  as  they  were  of  castles  until  Irving 
came  to  raise  them  into  the  realm  of  Faerie.  Such  an  act 
of  creation  alone  would  make  a  man  immortal.  Legends 
are  generally  the  growth  of  ages.  No  one  knows  when 
they  start.  But  here  a  young  Scotchman  like  an  enchanter 
waves  his  wand,  as  it  were,  and  the  whole  region  forgets  to 
be  merely  a  picturesque  landscape  and  becomes  a  sort  of 
classic  ground. 

Having  done  this  much  for  America,  for  his  own  ho*ne, 
he  goes  abroad  and  naturally  and  without  affectation  be- 
comes the  link  between  England  and  America.  His  pic- 
tures of  life  in  New  York  were  a  revelation  to  the  some- 
what supercilious,  yet  not  blameworthy  Englishmen  who 
asked,  "  Who  reads  an  American  book  ?  "  He  woke  them 
to  a  realization  of  the  possibility  of  an  American  litera- 
ture which  should  be  as  much  to  the  pride  and  honor  of 
England  as  Shakespeare,  Milton,  and  Scott  were  by  Amer- 
icans regarded  as  their  pride  and  lienor. 

He  also  depicted  English  and  Spanish  life,  customs,  and 
history  for  the  benefit  of  his  own  countrymen.     Such  a 


u 


THE  LIFE  OF  WASHINGTON  IRVING. 


life-work  was  a  step  toward  international  amity  and  under- 
standing.   Such  men  bind  nations  closer  together.     ,  ,  , 

Thus  Irving  is  claimed  by  both  England  and  America  as 
an  English  Classic ;  and  as  time  goes  on  the  masterpieces 
which  he  left  seem  to  rise  higher  in  their  proportions,  as 
the  peaks  of  a  mountain-range  impress  the  traveller  with 
their  altitude,  according  as  he  reaches  the  right  perspective 
of  distance.  Literature  claims  Washington  Irving  as  one 
of  her  immortals. 


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THE   SKETCH-BOOK 


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The  Count 
The  Wiuo^ 
The  Boar' 
The  MuTAi 
Rural  Fui 
The  Inn  kI 
The  SpectI 
WestminstI 
Christmas 
The  Stag] 
Christmas 
Christmas 
The  Chrisi 


.f\i  \\  ■  yi  i 


I  •  I  i  •  •       1.1 


#•   '  '<  <> 


CONTENTS. 


1 1 


Preface  to  the  RsviaED  Edition v 

Advertisement  to  the  first  American  Edition     .    .    .    .    xi 
Advertisement  to  the  first  English  Edition  .....   xii 

The  Author's  Account  of  Himself 6 

The  Voyage 9 

R03COE « 14 

The  Wife 20 

Rip  Van  Winkle 27 

English  Writers  on  America 41 

iluRAL  Life  in  England 49 

The  Bi{oken  Heart 56 

The  Art  of  Book-^Iaking 59 

A  Royal  Poet  .    .         65 

The  Country  Church 77 

The  Widow  and  her  Son 81 

The  Boar's  Head  Tavern,  Eastcheap 87 

The  Mutability  of  Literature 96 

Rural  Funerals 105 

The  Inn  Kitchen 115 

The  Spectre  Bridegroom 117 

Westminster  Abbey 130 

Christmas 139 

The  Stage-Coach 144 

Christmas  Eve 149 

Christmas  Day 159 

The  Christmas  Dinnbb 170 

iU 


m 


IV 


CONTSNTa, 


I 


FAsa 

Little  Britaik 182 

STRATrORD-ON-AYOK • 194 

Traits  of  Indian  Charaotkr .    .  210 

Philip  of  Pokanoket 219 

John  Bull 2S3 

The  Pride  of  the  Viixagb 242 

The  Angler 260 

The  Legend  of  Slsept  Hollow 258 

L'Envot 285 

A  Sunday  in  London 287 

London  Antiques 280 

Appendix 296 


?       \  fi' 


PREFACE  TO  THE  REVISED  EDITION. 


The  following  p&pers,  with  two  exceptions,  were  written  in 
England,  and  formed  but  part  of  an  intended  Beries  for  which 
I  bad  made  notes  and  memorandums.  Before  I  could  mature 
a  plan,  howeve**,  circumstances  compelled  me  to  send  them 
piecemeal  to  tl  i  United  States,  where  they  were  published 
from  time  to  time  in  portions  or  numbers.  It  was  not  my  in- 
tention to  publish  them  in  England,  being  conscious  that 
much  of  their  contents  could  be  interesting  only  to  American 
readers,  and,  in  truth,  being  deterred  by  the  severity  with 
which  American  productions  had  been  treated  by  the  British 
press. 

By  the  time  the  contents  of  the  first  volume  had  appeared 
in  this  occasional  manner,  they  began  to  find  their  way  across 
the  Atlantic,  and  to  be  inserted,  with  many  kind  encomiums,  in 
the  London  Literary  Oazette.  It  was  said,  also,  tliat  a  London 
bookseller  intended  to  publish  them  in  a  collective  form.  I 
determined,  therefore,  to  bring  them  forward  myself,  that  they 
might  at  least  have  the  benefit  of  my  superintendence  and 
revision.  I  accordingly  took  the  printed  numbers  which  1 
had  received  from  the  United  States,  to  Mr.  John  Murray, 
the  eminent  publisher,  from  whom  I  had  already  received 
friendly  attentions,  and  left  them  with  hin?  for  examination, 
informing  him  that  should  he  be  inclined  to  bring  them  before 
the  public,  I  had  materials  enough  on  hand  for  a  second  vol- 
ume. Several  days  having  elapsed  without  any  communica- 
tion from  Mr.  Murray,  I  addressed  a  note  to  him  in  which  I 
construed  his  silence  into  a  tacit  rejection  of  my  work,  and 
begged  that  the  numbers  I  had  left  with  him  might  be  returned 
to  me.     The  following  was  his  reply : 

My  dear  Sib:  I  entreat  you  to  believe  that  I  feel  truly 
obliged  by  your  kind  intentions  towards  me,  and  that  I  enter- 
tain the  most  unfeigned  respect  for  your  most  tasteful  talents. 
My  house  is  completely  filled  with  work-people  at  this  time, 
and  I  have  only  an  office  to  transact  business  iu ;  and  jester* 


▼i 


PREFACE  TO  THE  BBVISED  EDITION. 


• 


day  I  was  wholly  occupied,  or  I  should  have  done  myself  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you.  ,,.    ^.        o 

If  it  would  not  suit  me  to  engage  in  the  publication  of  your 
present  work,  it  is  only  because  I  do  not  see  that  scope  in  the 
nature  of  it  which  would  enable  me  to  make  those  satisfactory 
accounts  between  us,  without  which  I  really  feel  no  satisfaction 
in  engaging  — but  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  promote  their  circu- 
lation, and  shall  be  most  ready  to  attenl  to  any  future  plan 

of  yours. 

With  much  regard,  I  remain,  dear  sir. 

Your  faithful  servant, 

John  Murray. 

This  was  disheartening,  and  might  have  deterred  me  from 
any  further  prosecution  of  the  matter,  had  the  question  of 
republication  in  Great  Britain  rested  entirely  with  me ;  but 
I  apprehended  the  appearance  of  a  spurious  edition.  1  now 
thought  of  Mr.  Archibald  Constable  as  publisher,  having  been 
treated  by  him  with  much  hospitality  during  a  visit  to  Edin- 
burgh ;  but  firsu  I  determined  to  submit  my  work  to  Sir 
Walter  (then  Mr.)  Scott,  being  encouraged  to  do  so  by  the 
cordial  reception  I  had  experienced  from  him  at  Abbotsford 
a  few  y-ears  previously,  and  by  the  favorable  opinion  he  had 
expressed  to  others  of  my  earlier  writings.  I  accordingly 
sent  him  the  printed  numbers  of  the  Sketch  Book  in  a  parcel 
by  coach,  and  at  the  same  time  wrote  to  him,  hinting  that 
since  I  had  had  the  pleasure  of  partaking  of  his  hospitality,  a 
reverse  had  taken  place  in  my  affairs  which  made  the  success- 
ful exercise  of  my  pen  all-important  to  me ;  I  begged  him, 
therefore,  to  look  over  the  literary  articles  I  had  forwHrded 
to  him,  and,  if  he  thought  they  would  bear  European  republi- 
cation, to  ascertain  whether  Mr.  Constable  would  be  inclined 
to  be  the  publisher. 

The  parcel  containing  my  work  went  by  coach  to  Scott's 
address  in  Edinburgh ;  the  letter  went  by  mail  to  Ins  resi- 
dence in  the  country.  By  the  very  first  post  I  received  a 
reply,  before  he  had  seen  my  work. 

"  I  was  down  at  Kelso,"  said  he,  "  when  your  letter  reached 
Abbotsford.  I  am  now  on  my  way  to  town,  and  will  con- 
verse with  Constable,  and  do  all  in  my  power  to  forward  your 
views  —  I  assure  you  nothing  will  give  me  more  pleasure." 

The  hint,  however,  about  a  reverse  of  fortune  haol  struck 
the  quick  apprehension  of  Scott,  and,  with  that  practical  and 
efficient  good  will  which  belonged  to  his  nature,  he  had  already 


PREFACE  TO  THE  REVISED  EDITION. 


▼U 


devised  a  way  of  aiding  me.  A  weekly  periodical,  he  went  on 
to  inform  me,  was  about  to  be  set  up  in  Edinburgh,  supported 
by  the  most  respectable  talents,  and  amply  furnished  with  all 
the  necessary  information.  The  appointment  of  the  editor, 
for  which  ample  funds  were  provided,  would  be  five  hundred 
pounds  sterling  a  year,  with  the  reasonable  prospect  of  further 
advantages.  This  situation,  being  apparently  at  his  disposal, 
he  frankly  offered  to  me.  The  work,  however,  he  intimated, 
was  to  have  somewhat  of  a  political  bearing,  and  he  expressed 
an  apprehension  tha*^  the  tone  it  was  desired  to  adopt  might 
not  suit  me.  "  Yet  x  risk  the  question,"  added  he,  "  because  I 
know  no  man  so  well  qualified  for  this  important  task,  and 
perhaps  because  it  will  necessarily  bring  you  to  Edinburgh. 
If  my  proposal  does  not  suit,  you  need  only  keep  the  matter 
secret  and  there  is  no  harm  done.  '  And  for  my  love  I  pray 
you  wrong  me  not.'  If  on  the  contrary  you  think  it  could  be 
made  to  suit  you,  let  me  know  as  soon  as  possible,  addressing 
Castle  street,  Edinburgh." 

In  a  postscript,  written  from  Edinburgh,  he  adds,  "  I  am 
just  come  here,  and  have  glanced  over  the  Sketch  Book.  It 
is  positively  beautiful,  and  increases  my  desire  to  crimp  you, 
if  it  be  possible.  Some  difficulties  there  always  are  in  man- 
aging such  a  matter,  especially  at  the  outset ;  but  we  will 
obviate  them  as  much  as  we  possibly  can." 

The  following  is  from  an  imperfect  draught  of  my  reply, 
which  underwent  some  modifications  in  the  copy  sent : 

"  I  cannot  express  how  much  I  am  gratified  by  your  letter. 
I  had  begun  to  feel  as  if  I  had  taken  an  unwarrantable  liberty; 
but,  somehow  or  other,  there  is  a  genial  sunshine  about  you 
that  warms  every  creeping  thing  into  heart  and  confidence. 
Your  literary  proposal  both  surprises  and  flatters  me,  as 
it  evinces  a  much  higher  opinion  of  my  talents  than  I  have 
myself." 

I  then  went  on  to  explain  that  I  found  myself  peculiarly 
unfitted  for  the  situation  offered  to  me,  not  merely  by  my 
political  opinions,  but  by  the  very  constitution  and  habits  of 
my  mind.  "  My  whole  course  of  life,"  I  observed,  "  has  been 
desultory,  and  I  am  unfitted  for  any  periodically  recurring 
task,  or  any  stipulated  labor  of  body  or  mind.  1  have  no  com- 
mand of  my  talents,  such  as  they  are,  and  have  to  watch  the 
varyings  of  my  mind  as  I  would  those  of  a  weathercock. 
Practice  and  training  may  bring  me  more  into  rule ;  but  at 
present  I  am  as  useless  for  regular  service  as  one  of  my  own 
country  Indians  or  a  Don  Cossack. 


'? 


tr 


»  V! 


I:  '* 


^  PREFACE  TO  THE  BEVISXD  EDITION. 

« I  must,  therefore,  keep  on  pretty  much  as  I  have  begun-, 
writing  when  I  can,  not  when  I  would.  I  shall  occasionally 
shift  my  residence  and  write  whatever  is  suggested  by  objects 
before  me,  or  whatever  rises  in  my  imagination ;  a-  ^ope  to 
write  better  and  more  copiously  by  and  by. 

"  I  am  playing  the  egotist,  but  I  know  no  better  way  of 
answering  your  proposal  than  by  showing  what  a  very  good- 
forSVkSid^of  ^being  I  am."  Should  Mr.  Constable  feel 
inclined  to  make  a  bargain  for  the  wares  I  have  on  hand,  he 
will  encourage  me  to  further  enterprise ;  and  it  will  be  some- 
thing like  trading  with  a  gypsy  for  the  fruits  of  his  prowlmgs, 
who  may  at  one  time  have  nothing  but  a  wooden  bowl  to  offer, 
and  at  another  time  a  silver  tankard," 

In  reply,  Scott  expressed  regret,  but  not  surprise,  at  my 
declining  what  might  have  proved  a  troublesome  duty.  He 
then  recurred  to  the  original  subject  of  our  correspondence  ; 
entered  into  a  detail  of  the  various  terms  upon  which  arrange- 
ments were  made  between  authors  and  booksellers,  that  I 
might  take  my  choice ;  expressing  the  most  encouraging  con- 
fidence of  the  success  of  my  work,  and  of  previous  works 
which  I  had  produced  in  America.  "  I  did  no  more,"  added 
he^  "  than  open  the  trenches  with  Constable  ;  but  I  am  sure 
if  you  will  take  the  trouble  to  write  to  him,  you  will  find  him 
disposed  to  treat  your  overtures  with  every  degree  of  atten- 
tion. Or,  if  you  think  it  of  consequence  in  the  first  place  to 
lee  me,  I  shall  be  in  London  in  the  course  of  a  month,  and 
whatever  ray  experience  can  command  is  most  heartily  at 
your  command.  But  I  can  add  little  to  what  I  have  said 
above,  except  my  earnest  recommendation  to  Constable  to 
enter  into  the  negotiation."  ^ 


1  I  cannot  avoid  subjoining  in  a  note  a  succeeding  paragraph  of  Scott's 
letter,  which,  though  it  does  not  relate  to  the  main  subject  of  our  corre- 
spondence, was  too  characteristic  to  be  omitted.  Some  time  previously 
I  had  sent  Miss  Sophia  ScoU  small  duodecimo  Amerioiin  editions  of  her 
father's  poems  published  in  Edinburgh  in  quarto  volumes;  showing  the 
"  nigromancv  "  of  the  American  press,  by  which  a  quart  of  wine  is  con^ 
jured  into  a  pint  bottle.  Scott  observes  :  "  In  my  hurry,  I  have  not 
thanked  you  in  Sophia's  name  for  the  kind  attention  which  furnished  her 
with  the  American  vc'.umes.  I  am  not  quite  sure  I  can  add  my  own, 
since  you  have  made  her  acquainted  with  much  more  of  papa's  folly  than 
■he  would  ever  otherwise  have  learned ;  for  I  had  taken  special  care  they 
should  never  see  any  of  those  things  during  their  earlier  years.  I  think 
I  told  you  that  Walter  is  sweeping  the  firmament  with  a  feather  like  a 
maypole  and  indenting  the  pavement  with  a  sword  like  a  scythe  —  in 
other  words,  he  has  become  a  whiskered  hussar  in  the  18th  Dr^oona." 


on  one's   owi 


PSEFACB  TO  THB  RBVI8SD  EDITION. 


IX 


Before  the  receipt  of  this  most  obliging  letter,  howerer,  I 
had  determined  to  look  to  no  leading  bookseller  for  a  launch, 
but  to  throw  my  work  before  the  public  at  my  own  risk,  and 
let  it  sink  or  swim  according  to  its  merits.  I  wrote  to  that 
effect  to  Scott,  and  soon  received  a  reply : 

"  I  observe  with  pleasure  that  you  are  going  to  come  forth 
in  Britain.  It  is  certainly  not  the  very  best  way  to  publish 
on  one's  own  accompt;  for  the  booksellers  set  their  face 
against  the  circulation  of  such  works  as  do  not  pay  an  amaz- 
ing toll  to  themselves.  But  they  have  lost  the  art  of  alto- 
gether damming  up  the  road  in  such  cases  between  the  author 
and  the  public,  which  they  were  once  able  to  do  as  effectually 
as  Diabolus  in  John  Bunyan's  Holy  War  closed  up  the  win- 
dows  of  my  Lord  Understanding's  mansion.  I  am  sure  of 
one  thing,  that  you  have  only  to  be  known  to  the  British  pub- 
lic to  be  admired  by  them,  and  I  would  not  say  so  unless  I 
really  was  of  that  opinion. 

"  If  you  ever  see  a  witty  but  rather  local  publication  called 
Blackwood's  Edinburgh  Magazine,  you  will  find  some  notice 
of  your  works  in  the  last  number :  the  author  is  a  friend  of 
mine,  to  whom  I  have  introduced  you  in  your  literary  capacity. 
His  name  is  I  ockhart,  a  young  man  of  very  considerable  talent, 
and  who  will  soon  be  intimately  connected  with  my  family. 
My  faithful  friend  Knickerbocker  is  to  be  next  examined  and 
illustrated.  Constable  was  extremely  willing  to  enter  into 
consideration  of  a  treaty  for  your  works,  but  I  foresee  will  be 
still  more  so  when 

Your  name  is  up,  and  may  go 
From  Toledo  to  Madrid. 


i  ! 


i  I'l 


And  that  will  soon  be  the  case.     I  trust  to  be  in 

London  about  the  middle  of  the  month,  and  promise  myseli 
great  pleasure  in  once  again  shaking  you  by  the  hand." 

The  first  volume  of  the  Sketch  Book  was  put  to  press  in 
London,  as  I  had  resolved,  at  my  own  risk,  by  a  bookseller 
unknown  to  fame,  and  without  any  of  the  usual  arts  by  which 
a  work  is  trumpeted  into  notice.  Still  some  attention  had 
been  called  to  it  by  the  extracts  which  had  previously  appeared 
in  the  Literary  Gazette,  and  by  the  kind  word  spoken  by  the 
editor  of  that  periodical,  and  it  was  getting  into  fair  circu- 
lation, when  my  worthy  bookseller  failed  before  the  first 
month  was  over,  and  the  sale  was  interrupted. 

At  this  juncture  Scott  arrived  in  London.  I  called  to  him 
for  Lelp,  as  I  was  clicking  in  the  mire,  and,  more  propitious 


*• 


PREFACE   TO  THE  REVISED  EDITION. 


than  Hercules,  he  put  his  own  shoulder  to  the  wheel.  Through 
his  favorable  representations,  Murray  was  quickly  induced  to 
undertake  the  future  publication  of  the  work  which  he  had 
previously  declined.  A  further  edition  of  the  first  volume 
was  struck  off  and  the  second  volume  was  put  to  press,  and 
from  that  time  Murray  became  my  publisher,  conducting  him- 
self in  all  his  dealings  with  that  fair,  open,  and  liberal  spirit 
which  had  obtained  for  him  the  well-merited  appellation  of 
the  Prince  of  Booksellers. 

Thus,  under  the  kind  and  cordial  auspices  of  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  I  began  my  literary  career  ia  Europe ,  and  I  feel  that 
I  am  but  discharg.'ng,  in  a  trifling  degree,  my  debt  of  gratitude 
to  the  memory  of  that  golden-hearted  man  in  acknowledging 
ray  obligations  to  him.  But  who  of  his  literary  contempo- 
raries ever  applied  to  him  for  aid  or  counsel  that  did  not  ex- 
perience the  most  prompt,  generous,  and  effectual  assistance  ? 


W.  I. 


SUNNTSIDB,  1848. 


ADVERTISEMENT 


TO  THK 


FIRST    AMERICAN    EDITION. 


The  following  writings  are  published  on  experiment ;  should 
they  please,  they  may  be  followed  by  others.  The  writer  will 
have  to  contend  with  some  disadvantages.  He  is  unsettled  in 
his  abode,  subject  to  interruptions,  and  has  his  share  of  cares 
and  vicissitudes.  He  cannot,  therefore,  promise  a  regular  plan, 
nor  regular  periods  of  publication.  Should  he  be  encouraged 
to  proceed,  much  time  may  elapse  between  the  appearance  of 
his  numbers;  and  their  size  will  depend  on  the  materials  he 
may  have  on  hand.  His  writings  will  partake  of  the  fluctua- 
tions of  his  own  thoughts  and  feelings ;  sometimes  treating  of 
scenes  before  him,  sometimes  of  others  purely  imaginary,  and 
sometimes  wandering  back  with  his  recollections  to  his  native 
country.  He  will  not  be  able  to  give  them  that  tranquil  atten- 
tion necessary  to  finished  composition;  and  as  they  must  he 
transmitted  across  the  Atlantic  for  publication,  he  will  have 
to  trust  to  others  to  correct  the  frequent  errors  of  the  press. 
Should  his  writings,  however,  with  all  their  imperfections,  be 
well  received,  he  cannot  conceal  that  it  would  be  a  source  of  the 
purest  gratification ;  for  though  he  does  not  aspire  to  those  high 
honors  which  are  the  rewards  of  loftier  intellects ;  yet  it  is  the 
dearest  wish  of  his  heart  to  have  a  secure  and  cherished,  though 
bumble  corner  in  the  good  opinions  and  kind  feelings  of  his 
countrymen. 

London,  1819. 


ADVERTISEMENT 


TO  TBI 


FIRST   ENGLISH   EDITION. 


The  following  desultory  papers  are  part  of  a  series  written  in 
this  country,  but  published  in  America.  The  author  is  aware 
of  the  austerity  with  which  the  writings  of  his  countrymen  have 
hitherto  been  treated  by  British  critics ;  he  is  conscious,  too, 
that  much  of  the  contents  of  his  papers  can  be  interesting  only 
in  the  eyes  of  American  readers.  It  was  not  his  intention, 
therefore,  to  have  them  reprinted  in  this  country.  He  has, 
however,  observed  several  of  them  from  time  to  time  inserted 
in  periodical  works  of  merit,  and  has  understood,  that  it  was 
probable  they  would  be  republished  in  a  collective  form.  He 
has  been  induced,  therefore,  to  revise  and  bring  them  forward 
himself,  that  they  may  at  least  come  correctly  before  the  public. 
Should  they  be  deemed  of  sufficient  importance  to  attract  the 
attention  of  critics,  he  solicits  for  them  that  courtesy  and  can- 
dor which  a  stranger  has  some  right  to  claim  who  presents 
himself  at  the  threshold  of  a  hospitable  nation. 

February, WBi, 

xU 


'■'l-     \: 


THE  AUTHOR'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF. 


i  ] 


I  am  of  this  mind  with  Homer,  that  sb  the  analle  that  crept  out  of  her  shel  wan 
tnrned  eftsooDB  into  a  toad,  and  thereby  wag  forced  to  make  a  Btoole  to  Bit  gn;  bo  the 
traveller  that  atragleth  from  hie  owne  country  is  in  a  short  time  trauBformed  into  bo 
monatroug  a  ghape,  that  be  tg  faine  to  alter  his  manalon  with  his  manneni,  and  to  live 
where  be  can,  not  where  he  would.  —  Lyly's  Euphuet, 

I  WAS  alwaye  fond  of  visiting  new  scenes,  and  observing 
strange  characters  and  manners.  Even  when  a  mere  child  I 
began  my  travels,  and  made  many  tours  of  discovery  into 
foreign  parts  and  unknown  regions  of  my  native  city,  to  the 
frequent  alarm  of  my  parents,  and  the  emolument  of  the  town 
crier.  As  I  grew  into  boyhood,  I  extended  the  range  of  my 
observations.  My  holiday  afternoons  were  spent  in  rambles 
about  the  surrounding  country.  I  made  myself  familiar  with 
all  its  places  famous  in  history  or  fable.  I  knew  every  spot 
where  a  murder  or  robbery  had  been  committed,  or  a  ghost 
seen.  I  visited  the  neighboring  villages,  and  added  greatly 
to  my  stock  of  knowledge,  by  noting  their  habits  and  customs, 
and  conversing  with  their  sages  and  great  men.  I  even 
journeyed  one  long  summer's  day  to  the  summit  of  the  most 
distant  hill,  whence  I  stretched  my  eye  over  many  a  mile  of 
terra  incognita,  and  was  astonished  to  find  ho^jr  vast  a  globe  I 
inhabited. 

This  rambling  propensity  strengthened  with  my  years.  Books 
of  voyages  and  travels  became  my  passion,  and  in  devouring 
their  contents,  I  neglected  the  regular  exercises  of  the  school. 
How  wistfully  would  I  wander  about  the  pier  heads  in  fine 
weather,  and  watch  the  parting  ships,  bound  to  distant  cl'mes  — 
with  what  lodging  eyes  would  I  gaze  after  their  lessening  sails, 
and  waft  myself  m  imagination  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  I 

Further  reading  and  thinking,  though  they  brought  this  vagae 
inclination  into  more  reasonable  bounds,  only  served  to  mftko 
it  more  decided.  I  visited  various  parts  of  my  own  country ; 
and  had  I  been  merely  a  lover  of  fine  scenery,  I  should  have 


« 


THE  AUTHOR'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF. 


.  *■ 


I     f 


felt  little  desire  to  seek  elsewhere  its  gratification :  for  on 
no  country  have  the  charms  of  nature  been  more  prodigaii.v 
lavished.  Her  mighty  lakes,  like  oceans  of  liquid  silver;  her 
mountains,  with  their  bright  aerial  tints;  her  valleys,  teaming 
with  wild  fertility ;  her  tremendous  cataracts,  thundering  in  their 
solitudes ;  her  boundless  plains,  waving  with  spontaneous  ver- 
dure; her  broad  deep  rivers,  rolling  in  solemn  silence  to  tiie 
ocean  ;  her  trackless  forests,  where  vegetation  puts  forth  all  its 
magnificence;  her  skies,  kindling  with  the  magic  of  summir 
clouds  and  glorious  sunshine :  —  no,  never  need  an  American 
look  beyond  his  own  country  for  the  sublime  and  beautiful  of 

natural  scenery.  .   ,       , 

But  Europe  held  forth  the  charms  of  storied  and  poetical 
association.  There  were  to  be  seen  the  masterpieces  of  art,  the 
refinements  of  highly  cultivated  society,  the  quaint  peculiarities 
of  ancient  and  local  custom.  My  native  country  was  full  of 
youthful  promise ;  Europe  was  rich  in  the  accumulated  treasures 
of  age.  Her  very  ruins  told  the  history  of  times  gone  by,  and 
every  mouldering  stone  was  a  chronicle.  I  longed  to  wandei 
over  the  scenes  of  renowned  achievement  —  to  tread,  as  it  were, 
in  the  footsteps  of  antiquitj  -  -  to  loiter  about  the  ruined  castU 
—  to  meditate  on  the  falling  tower  —  to  escape,  in  short,  from 
the  commonplace  realities  of  the  present,  and  lose  myself  among 
the  shadowy  grandeurs  of  the  past. 

I  had,  beside  all  this,  an  earnest  desire  to  see  the  great  men 
of  the  earth.  We  have,  it  is  true,  our  great  men  in  America : 
not  a  city  but  has  an  ample  share  of  them.  I  have  mingled 
among  them  in  my  time,  and  been  almost  withered  by  the  shade 
into  which  they  cast  me ;  for  there  is  nothing  so  baleful  to  a 
small  man  as  the  shade  of  a  great  one,  particularly  the  great 
man  of  a  city.  But  I  was  anxious  to  see  the  great  men  of 
Europe ;  for  I  had  read  in  the  works  of  various  philosophers, 
that  all  animals'  degenerated  in  America,  and  man  among  the 
number.  A  great  man  of  Europe,  thought  I,  must  therefore  be 
as  superior  to  a  great  man  of  America  as  a  peak  of  the  Alps  to 
a  highland  of  the  Hudson ;  and  in  this  idea  I  was  confirmed,  by 
observing  the  comparative  importance  and  swelling  magnitude 
of  many  English  travellers  among  us,  who,  I  was  assured,  were 
very  little  people  in  their  own  country.  I  will  visit  this  land  of 
wonders,  thought  I,  and  see  the  gigantic  race  from  which  I  am 
degenerated. 

It  has  been  either  my  good  or  evil  lot  to  have  my  roving 
passion  gratified.  I  have  wandered  through  different  countries, 
and  witnessed  many  of  the  shifting  scenes  of  life.    I  cannot 


'  »»wi.  ♦-**  *<»  «.y  « 


THE  AUTHOR'S  ACCOUNT  OF  HIMSELF.  7 

gay  that  I  have  studied  them  with  the  eye  of  a  philosopher,  but 
rather  with  the  sauntering  gaze  with  which  humble  lovers  of 
the  4)icturesque  stroll  from  the  window  of  one  print-shop  to  an- 
other ;  caught  sometimes  by  the  delineations  of  beauty,  some- 
times by  tlie  distortions  of  caricatnrei  and  sometimes  by  the 
loveliness  of  landscape.  As  it  is  the  fashion  for  modern  tour- 
ists to  travel  pencil  in  hand,  and  bring  home  their  portfolios 
filled  with  sketches,  I  am  disposed  to  get  up  a  few  for  the  en- 
tertainment of  my  friends.  When,  however,  I  look  over  the 
hints  and  memorandums  I  have  taken  down  for  the  purpose, 
my  heart  almost  fails  me,  at  finding  how  my  idle  humor  has  led 
me  aside  from  the  great  objects  studied  by  every  regular  travel- 
ler who  would  make  a  book.  I  fear  I  shall  give  equal  disap- 
pointment with  an  unluck}-  landscape-painter,  who  had  travelled 
on  the  Continent,  but  following  the  bent  of  his  vagrant  inclina- 
tion, had  sketched  in  nooks,  and  corners,  and  by-places.  His 
sketch-book  was  accordingly  crowded  with  cottages,  and  land- 
scapes, and  obscure  ruins ;  but  he  had  neglected  to  paint  St. 
Peter's,  or  the  Coliseum  ;  the  Cascade  of  Terni,  or  the  Bay  of 
Naples ;  and  bad  not  a  single  glacier  or  volcano  in  his  whole 
coUectioa. 


i     i  h' 

1 

Hif 

m 

pi^i 

*i 

m  M 

1 . 

1  ',i^\ 

i 

1 H 

i 

i 

11 

'  'm 

1 

II 

; 


•  V, 


GEO 


"  I  have  no  wife  n< 
mcn'»  fortunei  and 
diversely  presented  i 


To  an  Amer 
make  is  an  ex 
worldly  scenes 
culiarly  fitted  t 
space  of  water 
page  in  existec 
in  Europe,  th< 
almost  impercc 
you  lose  sight 
you  step  on  th 
the  bustle  and 

In  travellinj 
conpp.oted  su© 
the  story  of  1 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK 


ov 


GEOFFEEY  CRAYON,  GENT. 


"  I  have  no  wife  nor  children,  good  or  bad,  to  provide  for.  A  mere  ipeotetor  of  other 
men's  fortunes  and  adventurei,  and  how  they  play  their  parte;  whioh,  methinkt,  are 
dlTersely  presented  nnto  mei  aa  from  a  common  theater  or  acene."  —  BCBTOid 


THE    VOYAGE. 

Bhipa,  ahipa,  I  will  deaorie  yoo 
Amidst  the  main, 

I  will  come  and  try  yon. 

What  you  are  protecting, 

And  projecting, 
What's  your  end  and  aim. 
One  goea  abroad  for  merchandise  and  trading, 
Another  stays  to  keep  his  country  from  invading, 
A  third  la  coming  homo  with  rich  and  wealthy  lading. 
Hallo  I  my  fancie,  whither  wilt  thou  go?  —  Old  Poik. 

To  an  American  visiting  Europe,  the  long  voyage  he  has  to 
make  is  an  excellent  preparative.  The  temporary  absence  of 
worldly  scenes  and  employments  produces  a  state  of  mind  pe- 
culiarly fitted  to  receive  new  and  vivid  impressions.  The  vast 
space  of  waters  that  separates  the  hemispheres  is  like  a  blank 
page  in  existence.  There  is  no  gradual  transition  by  which,  as 
in  Europe,  the  features  and  population  of  one  country  blend 
almost  imperceptibly  with  those  of  another.  From  the  moment 
you  lose  sight  of  the  land  you  have  left,  all  is  vacancy,  until 
you  step  on  the  opposite  shore,  and  are  launched  at  once  into 
the  bustle  and  novelties  of  another  world. 

In  travelling  by  land  there  is  a  continuity  of  scene,  and  a 
conrected  succession  of  persons  and  incidents,  that  carry  on 
the  story  of  Ufe,  and  lessen  the  effect  of  absence  and  sepa- 


*j 


I 


10 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK. 


If 


ration.  We  drag,  it  is  true,  "  a  lengthening  chain "  at  each 
remove  of  our  pilgrimage;  but  the  chain  is  unbroken;  we 
can  trace  it  back  link  by  link;  and  we  feel  that  the  last 
still  grapples  us  to  home.  But  a  wide  sea  voyage  severs  ua 
at  once.  It  makes  us  conscious  of  being  cast  loose  from  the 
secure  anchorage  of  settled  life,  and  sent  adrift  upon  a  doubtful 
world.  It  interposes  a  gulf,  not  merely  imaginary,  but  real, 
between  us  and  our  homes  —  a  gulf,  subject  to  tempest,  and 
fear,  and  uncertainty,  rendering  distance  palpable,  and  return 
precarious. 

Such,  at  least,  was  the  case  with  myself.  As  I  saw  the  last 
blue  line  of  my  native  land  fade  away  like  a  cloud  in  the  hori- 
zon, it  seemed  as  if  I  had  closed  one  volume  of  the  world  and 
its  concerns,  and  had  time  for  meditation,  before  I  opened 
another.  That  land,  too,  now  vanishing  from  my  view,  which 
contained  all  most  dear  to  me  in  life ;  what  vicissitudes  might 
occur  in  it  —  what  changes  might  take  place  in  me,  before 
I  should  visit  it  again !  Who  can  tell,  when  he  sets  forth  to 
wander,  whither  he  may  be  driven  by  the  uncertain  currents  of 
existence ;  or  when  he  may  return ;  or  whether  it  may  ever  be 
his  lot  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  childhood  ? 

I  said,  that  ut  sea  all  is  vacancy :  I  should  correct  the  expres- 
sion. To  one  given  to  day  dreaming,  and  fond  of  losing  him- 
self in  reveries,  a  sea  voyage  is  full  of  subjects  for  meditation ; 
but  then  they  are  the  wonders  of  the  deep  and  of  the  air,  and 
rather  tend  'o  abstract  the  mind  from  worldly  themes.  I  de- 
lighted to  loll  over  the  quarter-railing  or  climb  to  the  main-top, 
of  a  calm  day,  and  muse  for  hours  together  on  the  tranquil 
bosom  of  a  summer  sea;  —  to  gaze  upou  the  piles  of  golden 
clouds  just  peering  above  the  horizon ;  fancy  them  some  fairy 
realms,  and  people  them  with  a  creation  of  my  own  ;  —  to  watch 
the  gentle  undulating  billows,  rolling  their  silver  volumes,  as  if 
to  die  away  on  those  happy  shores. 

There  was  a  delicious  sensation  of  mingled  security  and  awe 
with  which  I  looked  down,  from  my  giddy  height,  on  the  mon- 
sters of  the  deep  at  their  uncouth  gambols  :  shoals  of  porpoises 
tumbling  about  the  bow  of  the  ship ;  the  grampus  slowly  heav- 
ing his  huge  form  above  the  surface ;  or  the  ravenous  shark, 
darting  like  a  spectre,  through  the  blue  waters.  Mv  imagina- 
tion would  conjure  up  all  that  I  had  heard  or  read  of  the  watery 
world  beneath  me :  of  the  finny  herds  that  roam  its  fathomless 
•valleys;  -^f  the  shapeless  monsters  that  lurk  among  the  very 
foundations  of  the  earth,  and  of  those  wild  phantasms  that 
swell  the  tales  of  fishermen  and  sailors. 


THE    VOYAOB. 


11 


Sometimes  a  distant  sail,  gliding  along  the  edge  of  ttie  ocean, 
would  be  another  theme  of  idle  speculation.  How  interesting 
this  fragment  of  a  world,  hastening  to  rejoin  the  great  mass  of 
existence!  What  a  glorious  monument  of  human  invention; 
which  has  in  a  manner  triumphed  over  wind  and  wave ;  has 
brought  the  ends  of  the  world  into  communion ;  has  established 
an  interchange  of  blessings,  pouring  into  the  sterile  regions  of 
the  north  all  the  luxuries  of  the  south ;  has  diffused  the  light  of 
knowledge,  and  the  charities  of  cultivated  life ;  and  has  thus 
bound  together  those  scattered  portions  of  the  human  race,  between 
which  nature  seemed  to  have  thrown  an  insurmountable  barrier. 

We  one  day  deseried  some  shapeless  object  drifting  at  a  dis- 
tance. At  sea,  every  thing  that  breaks  the  monotony  of  the 
surrounding  expanse  attracts  attention.  It  proved  to  be  the 
mast  of  a  ship  that  must  have  been  completely  wrecked ;  for 
there  were  the  remains  of  handkerchiefs,  by  which  some  of  the 
crew  had  fastened  themselves  to  this  spar,  to  prevent  their 
being  washed  off  by  the  waves.  There  was  no  trace  by  which 
the  name  of  the  ship  could  be  ascertained.  The  wreck  had 
evidently  drifted  about  for  many  months  ;  clusters  of  shell-fish 
had  fastened  about  it,  and  long  sea-weeds  flaunted  at  its  sides. 
But  where,  thought  I,  is  the  crew?  Their  struggle  has  long 
been  over  —  they  have  gone  down  amidst  the  roar  of  the  tem« 
pest  —  their  bones  lie  whitening  among  the  caverns  of  the  deep. 
Silence,  oblivion,  like  the  waves,  have  closed  over  them,  and 
no  one  can  tell  the  story  of  their  end.  What  sighs  have  been 
wafted  after  that  ship ;  what  prayers  offered  up  at  the  deserted 
fireside  of  home !  How  often  has  the  mistress,  the  wife,  th« 
mother,  pored  over  the  daily  news,  to  catch  some  casual  intelli« 
gence  of  this  rover  of  the  deep !  How  has  expectation  darkened 
into  anxiety  —  anxiety  into  dread — and  dread  into  despair! 
Alas!  not  one  memento  may  ever  return  for  love  to  cherish. 
All  that  may  ever  be  known,  is,  that  she  sailed  from  her  port, 
' '  and  was  never  heard  of  more !  " 

The  sight  of  this  wreck,  as  usual,  gave  rise  to  many  dismal 
anecdotes.  This  was  particularly  the  case  in  the  evening,  when 
the  weather,  which  had  hitherto  been  fair,  began  to  look  wildj 
and  threatening,  and  ga^e  indications  of  one  of  those  sudden 
storms  which  will  somet  raes  break  in  upon  the  serenity  of  a 
summer  voyage.  As  we  sat  round  the  dull  light  of  a  lamp,  in 
the  cabin,  that  made  the  gloom  more  ghastly,  every  one  had 
his  tale  of  shipwreck  and  disaster.  I  was  particularly  str  ick 
with  a  short  one  related  by  the  captain. 

"  As  I  was  once  sailing,"  said  he,  "  ia  a  fine,  stout  ship,  across 


12 


I'HE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


II: 


_■;   1 


\  '^-ik  it      '• 
I?  '  a  • '.! '    - 


the  banks  of  Newfoundland,  one  of  those  heavy  fogs  which  pre^ 
vail  in  those  parts  rendered  it  impossible  for  us  to  see  far  ahead, 
even  in  the  daytime;  but  at  night  the  weather  was  so  thick 
that  we  could  not  distinguish  any  object  at  twice  the  length  of 
the  ship.  I  kept  lights  at  the  mast-head,  and  a  constant  watch 
forward  to  look  out  for  fishing  smacks,  which  are  accustomed 
to  lie  at  anchor  on  the  banks.  The  wind  was  blowing  a  smack- 
ing breeze,  and  we  were  going  at  a  great  rate  through  the 
water.  Suddenly  the  watch  gave  the  alarm  of  '  a  sail  ahead ! ' 
—  it  was  scarcely  uttered  before  we  were  upon  her.  She  was  a 
small  schooner,  at  anchor,  with  her  broadside  toward  us.  The 
crew  were  all  asleep,  and  had  neglected  to  hoist  a  light.  Wo 
struck  her  just  amid-ships.  The  force,  the  size,  and  weight  of 
our  vessel,  bore  her  down  below  the  waves ;  we  passed  over  her 
and  were  hurried  on  our  course.  As  the  crashing  wreck  was 
sinking  beneath  us,  I  had  a  glimpse  of  two  or  three  half-naked 
wretches,  rushing  from  her  cabui ;  they  just  started  from  their 
beds  to  be  swallowed  shrieking  by  the  waves.  I  heard  their 
drowning  cry  mingling  with  the  wind.  The  blast  that  bore  it 
to  our  ears,  swept  us  out  of  all  farther  hearing.  I  shall  never 
forget  that  cry !  It  was  some  t'rae  before  ve  could  put  the  ship 
about,  she  was  under  such  headwa} .  We  returned  as  nearly 
as  we  could  guess,  to  the  place  where  the  smack  had  anchored. 
We  cruised  about  for  several  hours  in  the  dense  fog.  We  fired 
signal-guns,  and  listened  if  we  might  hear  the  halloo  of  any 
survivors ;  but  all  was  silent  —  we  never  saw  or  heard  any  thing 
of  them  more." 

I  confess  these  stories,  for  a  time,  put  an  end  to  all  my  fine 
fancies.  The  storm  increased  with  the  night.  The  sea  was 
lashed  into  tremendous  confusion.  There  was  a  fearful,  sullen 
sound  of  rushing  waves  and  broken  surges.  Deep  called  unto 
deep.  At  times  the  black  volume  of  clouds  overhead  seemed 
rent  asiinder  by  flashes  of  liglituing  which  quivered  along  tho 
foamiug  billows,  and  made  the  succeeding  darkness  doubly 
terrible.  The  thunders  bellowed  over  the  wild  waste  of  waters, 
and  were  echoed  and  prolonged  by  tho  mountain  waves.  As  I 
saw  the  ship  staggering  and  plunging  among  these  roaring 
caverns,  it  seemed  miraculous  tluit  she  regained  her  balance,  or 
preserved  her  buoyancy.  Her  ynrds  would  dip  into  the  water; 
her  bow  wj»s  almost  buried  IxMU'tUli  tho  waves.  Sometimes  an 
impending  surge  appeared  ready  to  overwhelm  her,  and  nothing 
but  a  dexterous  movement  of  the  helm  preserved  her  from  the 
shock. 

When  I  retired  to  my  cabiu,  the  awful  scene  still  followed 


Wfc 


)l  ■: 


Hi 


me.    The  whi 
like  funereal 
ing  and  i;voa 
weltering  sea 
along  the  sid 
seemed  as  if 
seeking  for  hi 
of  a  seam,  mij 
A  fine   day 
breeze,  soon 
impossible  to 
and  fair  wind 
canvas,  every 
ing  waves,   h 
seems  to  lord 
the  reveries  o 
tinual  reverie 
It  was  a  : 
"land!"  was 
have  experien 
of  sensations 
iirst  comes  in 
tions  with  the 
with   every  t 
which  his  stii 
From  that 
feverish   exci 
giiardion  giar 
stretching  out 
ing  into  the  c 
we  sailed  up  ■ 
escope.      My 
their  trim   si 
mouldering  ri 
spire  of  a  vill 
hill  —  all  wer 
The  tide  a 
enabled  to  C( 
people  ;  some 
or  relatives, 
ship  was  con! 
restless  air. 
wliistling  the 
having  been 


THE    VOYAGE. 


13 


me.  The  whistling  of  the  wind  through  the  rigging  sounded 
like  funereal  wailings.  The  creaking  of  the  masts  ;  the  strain- 
ing and  groaning  of  bulkheads,  as  the  ship  labored  in  the 
weltering  sea,  were  frightful.  As  I  heard  the  waves  rushing 
along  the  sides  of  the  ship,  and  roaring  in  my  very  ear,  it 
seemed  as  if  Death  were  r^rging  round  this  floating  prison, 
seeking  for  his  prey :  the  meri-  starting  of  a  nail,  the  yawning 
of  a  seam,  might  give  him  entr.uice. 

A  fine  day,  however,  with  a  tranquil  sea  and  favoring 
breeze,  soon  put  all  these  dismal  reflections  to  flight.  It  is 
impossible  to  resist  the  gladdening  influence  of  fine  weather 
and  fair  wind  at  sea.  When  the  ship  is  decked  out  in  all  her 
canvas,  every  sail  swelled,  and  careering  gayly  over  the  curl- 
ing waves,  how  lofty,  how  gallant,  she  appears  —  how  she 
seems  to  lord  it  over  the  deep !  I  might  fill  a  volume  with 
the  reveries  of  a  sea  voyage ;  for  with  me  it  is  almost  a  con- 
tinual reverie  —  but  it  is  time  to  get  to  shore. 

It  was  a  fine  sunny  morning  when  the  thrilling  cry  of 
"  land ! "  was  given  from  the  mast-head.  None  but  those  who 
have  experienced  it  can  form  an  idea  of  the  delicious  throng 
of  sensations  which  rush  into  an  American's  bosom  when  iie 
first  comes  in  sight  of  Europe.  There  is  a  volume  of  associa- 
tions with  the  very  name.  It  is  the  land  of  promise,  teeming 
with  every  thing  of  which  his  ''hildhood  has  heard,  or  on 
wliich  his  studious  years  have  pondered. 

From  that  time,  until  the  moment  of  arrival,  it  was  all 
feverish  exciteraent.  The  ships  of  war,  that  prowled  like 
guardian  giants  along  the  coast;  the  headlands  of  Ireland, 
stretching  out  into  the  channel ;  the  Welsh  mountains,  tower- 
ing into  the  clouds ;  all  were  objects  of  intense  interest.  As 
we  sailed  up  the  Mersey,  I  reconnoitred  the  shores  with  a  tel- 
escope. My  eye  dwelt  with  delight  on  neat  cottages,  with 
their  trim  shrubberies  and  green  grass-plots.  I  saw  the 
mouldering  ruin  of  an  abbey  overrun  with  ivy,  and  the  taper 
spire  of  a  village  church  rising  from  the  brow  of  a  neighboring 
hill  —  all  were  characteristic  of  England. 

The  tide  and  wind  were  so  favorable,  th,',t  the  ship  was 
enabled  to  come  at  once  to  the  pier.  It  was  thronged  with 
people  ;  some  idle  lookers-on,  others  eager  expectants  of  friends 
or  relatives.  I  could  distinguish  the  merchant  to  whom  the 
ship  was  consigned.  I  knew  him  by  his  calculating  brow  and 
restless  air.  His  hands  were  thrust  into  his  pockets,  he  was 
whistling  thoughtfully,  and  walking  to  and  fro,  a  small  space 
having  been  accorded  him  bj  the  crowd,  in  deference  tjn  liia 


Ij 


14 


TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


tercporary  importance.     There   were   repeated   cheerings   and 
salutations  interchanged  between  the  shore  and  the  ship,  as 
friends   happened  to   recognize    each    other.      I   particularly 
noticed  one  young  woman  of  humble  dress,  but  interesting  de- 
meanor.    She  was  leaning   forward   from  among  the  crowd; 
her  eye  hurried  over  the  ship  as  it  neared  the  shore,  to  catch 
some  wished-for  couutenance.     She  seemed  disappointed  and 
agitated;  when  I  heard  a  faint  voice  call  her  name.  —  It  was 
from  a  poor  sailor  who  had  been  ill  all  the  vo3'age,  and  had  ex- 
cited the  sympathy  of  every  one  on  board.     AVhcn  tho  weather 
was  fine,  his  messmates  had  spread  a  mattress  for  him  on  deck 
in  the  shade,  but  of  late  his  illness  had  so  increased  that  he  had 
taken  to  his  hammock,  and  only  breathed  a  wish  that  he  might 
see  his  wife  before  he  died.     He  had  been  helped  on  deck  as 
we  came  up  the  rivf  r,  and  was  now  leaning  ngainst  the  shrouds, 
with  a  countenance  so  wasted,  so  pale,  so  ghastly,  that  it  was 
no  wonder  even  t'le  eye  of   affection  did  not  recognize   him. 
But  at  the  sound  cf  his  voice,  her  eye  darted  on  his  features; 
it  read,  at  once,   i  whole  volume  of  sorrow ;  she  clasped  her 
hands,  uttered  a  f  liut  shriek,  and  stood  wringing  them  in  silent 
agony. 

All  now  was  hurry  and  bustle.  The  meetings  of  acquaint- 
ances—  the  greetings  of  friends  —  the  consultations  of  men  of 
business.  I  alone  was  solitary  and  idle.  I  had  no  friend  to 
meet,  no  cheering  to  receive.  I  stepped  upon  the  land  of  my 
forefathers  —  but  felt  that  I  was  a  stranger  in  the  land. 


ROSCOE. 

—  In  the  iervlce  of  mankind  to  be 

A  guardian  god  below ;  gtili  to  employ 

The  mind's  brave  ardor  in  horoic  alms, 

Such  as  may  raise  us  o'er  the  grovelling  herd, 

And  make  us  shine  for  ever  —  that  is  life.  —  Thomson. 

One  of  the  first  places  to  which  a  stranger  is  taken  in  Liver- 
pool, is  the  Athenaeum.  It  is  establislied  on  a  liberal  and 
judicious  plan ;  it  contains  a  good  library,  and  spacious  read- 
ing-room, and  is  the  great  literary  resort  of  the  place.  Go 
there  at  what  hour  you  may,  you  are  sure  to  find  it  filled  witli 
grave-looking  personages,  deeply  absorbed  in  the  study  of 
newspapers. 


As  T  was  o 

was  attracted 
vanced  in  life 
commanding, 
care.  He  ha 
that  would  h 
furrows  on  h 
busy  there,  y« 
soul.  There 
cated  a  being 
him. 

I  inquired  1 
I  drew  back  m 
then,  was  an 
wliose  voices 
whose  minds  1 
ica.     Accusto 
writers  only  b; 
other  men,  en< 
with  the  crow 
Tiiey  pass  bef( 
with  thj  eman 
of  literary  gloi 
To  find,  the 
gUng  among  tj 
cal  ideas ;  but 
in  which  he  ha 
est  claims  to  a 
minds  seem  a 
every  disadvai 
way  through  a 
disappointing 
legitimate  dul 
luxuriance  of 
of  genius  to  tl 
stony  places 
and  brambles 
strike  root  eve 
into  sunshine, 
beauties  of  ve 
Such  has  be 
apparently  unj 
raarket-plac 
patronage ;  sel 


ROSCOE^ 


15 


As  T  was  once  visiting  this  haunt  of  the  learned,  my  attention 
was  attracted  to  a  person  just  entering  the  room.  He  was  ad- 
vanced in  life,  tall,  and  of  a  form  that  might  once  have  been 
commanding,  but  it  was  a  little  bowed  by  time  —  perhaps  by 
care.  He  had  a  noble  Roman  style  of  countenance ;  a  head 
that  would  have  pleased  a  painter ;  and  though  some  slight 
furrows  on  his  brow  showed  that  wasting  thought  had  been 
busy  there,  yet  his  eye  still  beamed  with  the  fire  of  a  poetic 
soul.  There  was  something  in  his  whole  appearance  that  indi- 
cated a  being  of  a  diflferent  order  from  the  bustling  race  around 
him. 

I  inquired  his  name,  and  was  informed  that  it  was  Roscoe. 
I  drew  back  with  an  involuntary  feeling  of  veneration.  This, 
then,  was  an  author  of  celebrity ;  this  was  one  of  those  men 
whose  voices  have  gone  forth  to  the  ends  of  the  earth ;  with 
whose  minds  I  have  communed  even  in  the  solitudes  of  Amer- 
ica. Accustomed,  as  we  are  in  our  country,  to  know  European 
writers  only  by  their  works,  we  cannot  conceive  of  them,  as  of 
other  men,  engrossed  by  trivial  or  sordid  pursuits,  and  jostling 
witli  the  crowd  of  common  minds  in  the  dusty  paths  of  life. 
Tiiey  pass  before  our  imaginations  like  superior  beings,  radiant 
with  thj  emanations  of  their  genius,  and  surrounded  by  a  halo 
of  literary  glory. 

To  find,  therefore,  the  elegant  historian  of  the  Medici  min- 
gling among  the  busy  sous  of  tralHc,  at  first  shocked  my  poeti- 
cal ideas ;  but  it  is  from  the  very  ciicumstances  and  situation 
in  which  he  has  been  placed,  that,  Mr.  Roscoe  derives  his  high- 
est claims  to  admiration.  It  is  interesting  to  notice  how  some 
minds  seem  almost  to  create  themselves ;  springing  up  under 
every  disadvantage,  and  working  their  solitary  but  irresistible 
way  through  a  thousand  obstacles.  Nature  seems  to  delight  in 
disappointing  the  assiduities  of  art,  with  which  it  would  rear 
legitimate  dulness  to  maturity ;  and  to  glory  in  the  vigor  and 
luxuriance  of  her  chance  productions.  She  scatters  the  seeds 
of  genius  to  the  winds,  and  thougli  some  may  perish  among  the 
stony  places  of  the  world,  and  some  be  choked  by  the  thorns 
and  brambles  of  early  adversity,  yet  others  will  now  and  then 
strike  root  even  in  the  clefts  of  the  rock,  struggle  bravely  up 
into  sunshine,  and  spread  over  their  sterile  birthplace  all  the 
beauties  of  vegetation. 

Such  has  been  the  case  with  Mr.  Roscoe.  Born  in  a  place 
apparently  ungenial  to  the  growth  of  literary  talent ;  in  the  very 
Tnarket-plac"^  '-f  trade ;  without  fortune,  family  connections,  or 
patronage ;  self-prompted,  self -sustained,  and  almost  self-taught, 


i'' 


:  n 


Ir 


H   li 


11 


It 


THE  8KETCW-B00K. 


he  has  conquered  every  cbstaclc,  achieved  his  way  to  eminence, 
and  having  become  one  of  tlie  ornaments  of  the  nation,  haa 
turned  the  whole  force  of  his  talents  and  influence  to  advance 
and  embellish  his  native  town. 

Indeed,  it  is  this  last  trait  in  his  character  which  has  given 
him  the  greatest  interest  in  my  eyes,  and  induced  rae  particu- 
larly to  point  him  out  to  my  countrymen.  Eminent  as  are  his 
literary  merits,  he  is  but  one  among  the  many  distinguished 
authors  of  this  intellectual  nation.  They,  however,  in  general, 
live  but  for  their  own  fame,  or  their  own  pleasures.  Their 
private  history  presents  no  lesson  to  the  world,  or,  perhaps,  a 
humiliating  one  of  human  frailty  and  inconsistency.  At  beat, 
they  are  prone  to  steal  away  from  the  bust!e  and  commonplace 
of  busy  existence  ;  to  indulge  in  the  selfishness  of  lettered  ease  •, 
and  to  revel  in  scenes  of  mental,  but  exclusive  enjoyment. 

Mr.  Roscoe,  on  the  contrarj-,  has  claimed  none  of  the  accorded 
privileges  of  talent.  He  has  shut  himself  up  in  no  garden  of 
thought,  nor  elysium  of  fancy  ;  but  has  gone  fortli  into  the  high- 
ways and  thoroughfares  of  life,  he  has  planted  bovvers  by  the 
way-side,  for  the  refreshment  of  the  pilgrim  and  the  sojourn-^r, 
and  has  opened  pure  fountains,  where  the  laboring  man  may 
turn  aside  from  the  dust  and  iickt  of  the  day,  and  drink  of  the 
living  streams  of  knowledge.  There  is  a  "  dtiily  beauty  in  his 
life,"  on  which  mankind  may  meditate,  and  grow  better.  It 
exhibits  no  lofty  and  almost  useless,  because  iiiimitable,  ex- 
ample  of  excellence ;  but  presents  a  picture  of  active,  yet  sim- 
ple andimitable  virtnes,  which  are  within  every  man's  reach,  Itiit 
which,  unfortunately,  are  not  exercised  by  many,  or  this  world 
would  be  a  paradise. 

But  his  private  life  is  peculiarl}-  worthy  the  attention  of  the 
citizens  of  our  young  and  busy  country,  wliere  literature  and 
the  elegant  arts  must  grow  up  side  by  side  with  the  coarser 
plants  of  daily  necessity ;  and  must  depend  for  their  culture, 
not  on  the  exclusive  devotion  of  time  and  wealth;  nor  the 
quickening  rays  of  titled  patronage  ;  but  on  hours  and  seasons 
snatched  from  the  pursuit  of  worldly  interests,  by  intelligent 
and  public-spirited  individuals. 

He  has  shown  how  mucii  may  be  done  for  a  place  in  hours  of 
leisure  by  one  master  spirit,  and  how  completely  it  can  give  its 
own  impress  to  surrounding  objects.  Like  his  own  Lorenzo  de 
Medici,  on  whom  he  seems  to  have  fixed  his  eye,  as  on  a  pure 
model  of  antiquity,  he  has  interwoven  the  history  of  his  life 
with  the  history  of  his  native  town,  and  has  made  the  I'ounda- 
tions  of  its  fame  the  moauuients  of  his  virtues.     Whenever  you 


mind  :  to  the 


l^ 


ROSCOB. 


17 


go,  in  Liverpool,  you  perceive  traces  of  his  footst  ;p8  in  all  that 
is  elegant  and  liberal.  He  found  the  tide  of  wealth  flowing 
merely  in  the  channela  of  traffic ;  he  has  diverted  from  it  invig- 
orating rills  to  refresh  tlie  gardens  of  literature.  By  his  own 
example  and  constant  exertions,  he  has  effected  that  union  of 
coraraerce  and  the  intellectual  pursuits,  so  eloquently  recom- 
mended in  one  of  his  latest  writings ; '  and  has  practically 
proved  how  beautifully  they  may  be  brought  to  harmonize,  and 
to  benefit  each  other.  The  noble  institutions  for  literary  and 
scientilic  purposes,  which  reflect  such  credit  on  Liverpool,  and 
are  giving  such  an  impulse  to  the  public  mind,  have  mostly 
been  originated,  and  b:ive  all  been  effectively  promoted  by  Mr. 
Roscoe :  and  when  we  consider  the  rapidly  increasing  opulence 
and  magnitude  of  that  town,  which  promises  to  vie  in  commer- 
cial importance  with  tlie  metropolis,  it  will  be  perceived  that  in 
avakening  an  ambition  of  mental  improvement  among  its  in- 
liabitaiits,  he  has  effected  a  great  beaefit  to  the  cause  of  British 
literature. 

In  America,  we  know  Mr.  Roscoe  only  as  the  author  —  in 
Liverpool  he  is  spoken  of  as  tlie  banker ;  and  I  was  told  of  his 
having  been  unfortunate  in  business.  1  could  not  pity  him,  as 
I  heard  some  rich  men  do.  I  considered  him  far  above  the 
reach  of  pity.  Those  who  live  only  for  the  world,  and  in 
the  world,  may  be  cast  down  by  the  frowns  Oi  adversity  ;  but 
H  man  like  Roscoe  is  not  to  be  overcome  by  the  reverses  of  for- 
tune. They  do  but  drive  him  in  upon  the  resources  of  his  own 
mind ;  to  the  superior  society  of  his  own  thoughts ;  which  the 
uest  of  men  are  a[)t  sometimes  to  neglect,  and  to  roam  abroad 
in  search  of  less  worthy  associates.  He  is  independent  of  the 
world  around  him.  He  lives  with  antiquity  and  posterity :  with 
antiquity,  in  the  sweet  communion  of  studious  retirement ;  and 
with  posterity  in  the  generous  aspirings  after  future  renown. 
IMie  solitude  of  such  a  mind  is  its  state  of  higliest  enjoyment. 
It  is  then  visited  by  those  elevated  meditations  which  are  the 
proper  aliment  of  noble  souls,  and  are,  like  manna,  sent  from 
lieaveii,  in  the  wilderness  of  this  world. 

While  my  feelings  were  yet  alive  on  the  subject,  it  was  my 
fortune  to  light  ou  further  traces  of  Mr.  Roscoe.  I  was  riding 
out  with  a  gentleman,  to  view  tiie  environs  of  Liverpool,  when 
he  turned  off,  through  a  gate,  into  some  ornamented  grounds. 
After  riding  a  short  distance,  we  came  to  a  spacious  mansion 
of  freestone,  built  in  the  Grecian  style.     It  was  not  in  the  purest 

*  Address  ou  the  opening  of  the  Liverpool  Institution. 


S' 


u 


I 


fit 


I    . 


I  II 


!   If 


^\ 


IB 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


taste,  yet  it  had  an  air  of  elegance,  and  the  fittaftt<  a  was  de. 
lightful.  A  fine  lawn  sloped  away  from  it,  8tu<>'ca  ^nb  clumps 
of  trees,  so  disposed  as  to  break  a  soft  fertile  ..vaj  i"to  a 
variety  of  landscapes.  The  Mersey  was  seen  wiiuling  a  ad 
quiet  sheet  of  water  through  an  expanse  of  green  meadow  land  ; 
iv^hile  the  Welsh  mountains,  blended  with  clouds,  and  melting 
uto  distance,  bordered  the  horizon. 

I  This  was  Roscoe's  favorite  residence  during  the  da^j  of  hia 
;  nrosperity.  It  had  been  the  seat  of  elegant  hospitp.llty  and  lit- 
erary retirement.  The  house  was  now  silent  au'l  deserted.  I 
saw  the  windows  of  the  study,  which  looked  out  upon  the  soft 
scenery  I  have  mentioned.  The  windows  were  closed  —  the 
library  was  gone.  Two  or  three  ill-favored  beings  were  lower- 
ing about  the  place,  whom  my  fancy  pictured  into  retainers  of 
the  law.  It  was  like  visiting  some  classic  fountain  that  had 
once  welled  its  pure  waters  in  a  sacred  shade,  but  finding  it  dry 
and  dusty,  with  the  lizard  and  the  toad  brooding  over  the  shat- 
tered marbles. 

I  inquired  after  the  fate  of  Mr.  Roscoe's  library,  which  had 
consisted  of  scarce  and  foreign  books,  from  many  of  wliich  he 
had  drawn  the  materials  for  his  Italian  histories.  It  had  passed 
under  the  hammer  of  the  auctioneer,  and  was  dispersed  about 
the  country. 

The  good  people  of  the  vicinity  thronged  like  wreckers  to 
get  some  part  of  the  noble  vessel  that  had  been  driven  on  shore. 
Did  such  a  scene  admit  of  ludicrous  associations,  we  might 
Imagine  something  whimsica'  in  this  strange  irruption  in  the 
regions  of  learning.  Pigmies  rummaging  the  armory  of  a  giant, 
and  contendinsi  for  the  possession  of  weapons  which  they  cou!! 
not  wield.  We  might  picture  to  ourselves  some  knot  of  spt'cu 
lators,  debating  with  calculating  brow  over  the  quaint  bindin  • 
and  illuminated  margin  of  an  obsolete  author ;  of  the  air  of  in- 
tense, but  baffled  sagacity,  with  which  some  successful  purchase 
attempted  to  dive  into  the  bhick-letter  l)argain  he  had  sociircd. 

It  is  a  beautiful  incident  in  the  story  of  Mr.  liusi'oc's  niisfoi 
tunes,  and  one  which  cannot  fail  to  interest  the  studious  mind.- 
that  the  parting  with  his  books  seems  to  have  touched  ui)on  hit; 
tenderest  feelings,  and  to  have  been  the  only  circumstance  that 
sould  provoke  the  notice  of  his  muse.  The  scholar  only  knows 
dow  dear  these  silent,  yet  eloquent,  companions  of  pure  thoughts 
Ind  innocent  hours  become  in  the  seasons  of  adversity.  When 
all  that  is  worldly  turns  to  dross  around  us,  these  only  retain 
their  steady  value.  When  friends  grow  cold,  and  the  converse 
Vf  intimates  languishes  iuto  vapid  civility  and  commonplace, 


BOSCOS. 


Id 


these  only  continue  the  unaltered  countenance  of  happier  days, 
and  cheer  us  with  that  true  friendship  which  never  deceived 
hope,  nor  deserted  sorrow. 

I  do  not  wish  to  censure  ;  but,  surely,  if  the  people  of  Liver- 
pool had  been  properly  sensible  of  what  was  due  to  Mr.  Boscoe 
and  themselves,  his  library  would  never  have  been  sold.  Good 
worldly  reasons  may,  doubtless,  be  given  for  the  circumstance, 
which  it  would  be  diflicult  to  combat  with  others  that  might 
seem  merely  fancifid  ;  but  it  certainly  appears  to  me  such  an 
opportunity  as  seldom  occurs,  of  cheering  a  noble  mind  strug- 
gling under  misfortunes  by  one  of  the  most  delicate,  but  most 
expressive  tokens  of  public  sympathy.  It  is  dillicult,  however, 
to  estimate  a  man  of  genius  properly  who  is  daily  before  our 
eyes.  He  becomes  miugled  and  confuunded  with  other  men. 
His  great  qualities  lose  their  novelty,  we  become  too  familiar 
witii  the  common  materials  which  form  the  basis  even  of  the 
loftiest  cluuaeter.  Some  of  Mr.  Roscoe's  townsmen  may  regard 
liini  merely  as  a  man  of  business ;  others  as  a  politician  ;  all 
find  him  engaged  like  themselves  in  ordinary  occupations,  and 
surpassed,  perhaps,  by  themselves  on  some  points  of  worldly 
wisdom.  Even  that  amiable  and  unostentatious  simplicity  of 
character,  which  gives  the  nameless  grace  to  real  excellence, 
may  cause  him  to  be  undervalued  by  some  coarse  minds,  who 
do  not  know  that  true  worth  is  always  void  of  glare  and  preten- 
sion. But  the  man  of  letters  who  speaks  of  Liverpool,  speaks 
of  it  as  the  residence  of  Roscoe.  — The  intelligent  traveller  who 
visits  it,  inquires  where  Roscoe  is  to  be  seen. — He  is  the  liter- 
ary landmark  of  the  place,  indicating  its  existence  to  the  distant 
scholar.  —  He  is  like  Pompey's  column  at  Alexandria,  towering 
alone  in  classic  dignity. 

The  following  sonnet,  addressed  by  Mr.  Roscoe  to  his  books, 
on  parting  with  them,  is  alluded  to  in  the  preceding  article.  If 
any  thing  can  add  effect  to  the  pure  feeling  and  elevated  thought 
here  displayed,  it  is  the  conviction,  that  the  whole  is  no  effusion 
of  fancy,  but  a  faithful  transcript  from  the  writer's  heart : 

TO  MY  BOOKS. 

Ab  one,  who,  dnatined  from  his  friends  to  part, 
Regrets  h^B  loss,  but  hopes  again  erewhlle 
To  share  their  converse,  and  enjoy  their  smile, 

And  tempers,  as  he  may,  affliction's  dart; 

Thus,  loved  assoclateR,  chiefs  of  elder  art. 

Teachers  of  wisdom,  who  could  once  beguile 
My  tedious  hours,  and  lighten  every  toil, 

I  now  ruHigu  you;  uor  with  fuiutlng  hearty 


li' 


20 


'>,-..( 


THE  SKETCn-BOOR. 

For  pans  a  few  ehort  yeara,  or  days,  or  boon, 
Aud  happier  seasooa  may  their  dawn  anfold* 
And  all  your  iacred  feilowahip  restore; 

When  freed  from  eaHb,  unlimited  Iti  powera, 
Mind  shall  wl'.h  mind  direct  communion  hold. 

And  kindred  aplrita  meet  to  part  no  more. 


A  I 


THE  WIFE. 

The  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  so  preeioop 
As  are  the  concealed  comforts  of  a  man 
Lock'd  up  in  woman's  love.    I  scent  the  air 
Of  blessings,  when  I  come  but  near  the  house. 
What  a  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth— 
Tho  violet  bed's  not  sweeter  I 

MiDDLBTOH. 


■  i 

■  I 


I  HAVE  often  had  occasion  to  remark  the  fortitude  with  which 
women  sustain  the  most  overwhelming  reverses  of  fortune. 
Those  disasters  which  breal{  down  the  spirit  of  a  man,  and 
prostrate  him  in  the  dust,  seem  to  call  forth  all  the  energies  of 
the  softer  sex,  and  give  such  intrepidity  and  elevation  to  their 
character,  that  at  times  it  approaches  to  sublimity.  Nothing 
can  be  more  touching,  than  to  behold  a  soft  and  tender  female, 
who  had  been  all  weakness  and  dependence,  and  alive  to  every 
trivial  roughness,  while  treading  the  prosperous  paths  of  life, 
suddenly  rising  in  mental  force  to  be  the  comforter  and  sup- 
porter of  her  husband  under  misfortune,  and  abiding,  with  un- 
shrinking flrnmess,  the  bitterest  blasts  of  adversity. 

As  the  vine,  which  has  long  twined  its  graceful  foliage  about 
th»  oak,  and  been  lifted  by  it  into  sunshine,  will,  when  the 
hardy  plant  is  rifted  by  the  thunderbolt,  cling  round  it  with  its 
caressing  tendrils,  and  bind  up  its  shattered  boughs ;  so  is  it 
beautifully  ordered  by  Providence,  that  woman,  who  is  the 
mere  dependent  and  ornament  of  man  in  his  happier  hours, 
should  be  his  stay  and  solace  when  smitten  with  sudden  calam- 
ity ;  winding  herself  into  the  rugged  recesses  of  his  nature, 
tenderly  supporting  the  drooping  head,  and  binding  up  the 
broken  heart. 

I  was  once  congratulating  a  friend,  who  had  around  him  a 
blooming  family,  knit  together  in  the  strongest  affection.  "  I 
can  wish  you  no  better  lot,"  said  he,  with  enthusiasm,  "  than 
to  have  a  wife  and  children.  If  you  are  prosperous,  there  they 
are  to  share  your  prosperity ;  if  otherwise,  there  they  are  to 


THE    WIFE. 


21 


comfort  you."  And,  indeed,  I  have  observed  that  a  married 
man  falling  into  misfortune,  is  more  apt  to  retrieve  bis  situation 
in  tlie  world  than  a  single  one  ;  partly,  because  be  is  more  stim> 
ulatcd  to  exertion  by  the  necessities  of  the  helpless  and  be- 
loved beings  who  depend  upon  him  for  subsistence  ;  but  chiefly, 
because  bis  spirits  are  soothed  and  relieved  by  domestic  endear- 
ments, and  his  self-respect  kept  alive  by  finding,  that  though 
all  abroad  is  darkness  and  humiliation,  yet  there  is  still  a  little 
world  of  love  at  home,  of  which  he  is  tlie  monarch.  Whereas, 
a  single  man  is  apt  to  run  to  waste  and  self-neglect ;  to  fancy 
himself  lonely  and  abandoned,  and  his  heart  to  fall  to  ruin,  like 
some  deserted  mansion,  for  want  of  an  inhabitant. 

These  observations  call  to  mind  a  little  domestic  story,  of 
which  I  was  once  a  witness.  My  intimate  friend,  Leslie,  had 
married  a  beautiful  and  accomplished  girl,  who  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  midst  of  fashionable  life.  She  bad,  it  is 
true,  no  fortune,  but  that  of  my  friend  was  ample;  and  he 
delighted  in  the  anticipation  of  indulging  her  in  every  elegant 
pursuit,  and  administering  to  those  delicate  tastes  and  fancies 
that  spread  a  kind  of  witchery  about  the  sex.  —  ♦'  Her  life," 
said  be,  "  shall  be  like  a  fairy  tale." 

The  very  difference  in  their  characters  produced  a  harmonious 
combination  ;  he  was  of  a  romantic,  and  somewhat  serious  cast ; 
she  was  all  life  and  gladness.  I  have  often  noticed  the  mute 
rapture  with  which  he  would  gaze  upon  her  in  company,  of 
which  her  sprightly  powers  made  her  the  delight ;  and  how,  in 
the  midst  of  applause,  her  eye  would  still  turn  to  him,  as  if 
there  alone  she  sought  favor  and  acceptance.  When  leaning 
on  bis  arm,  her  slender  form  contrasted  finely  with  his  tall, 
manly  person.  The  fond  confiding  air  with  which  she  looked 
up  to  him  seemed  to  call  forth  a  flush  of  triumphant  pride  and 
cherishing  tenderness,  as  if  he  doted  on  his  lovely  burden  for 
its  very  helplessness.  Never  did  a  couple  set  forward  on  the 
flowery  path  of  early  and  well-suited  marriage  with  a  fairer 
prospect  of  felicity. 

It  was  the  misfortune  of  my  friend,  however,  to  have  em- 
barked his  property  in  large  speculations ;  and  he  had  not  been 
married  many  months,  when,  by  a  succession  of  sudden  disas- 
ters, it  was  swept  from  him,  and  he  found  himself  reduced  al- 
most to  penury.  For  a  time  he  kept  his  situation  to  himself, 
nud  went  about  with  a  haggard  countenance,  and  a  breaking 
heart.  His  life  was  but  a  protracted  agony ;  and  what  ren- 
dered it  more  insupportable  was  the  necessity  of  keeping  up  a 
smile  in  the  presence  of  bis  wife  ;  for  he  could  not  bring  him- 


22 


THE   SKETCn-BOOK. 


i 


IV' 


■f 


1    m  I 


self  to  overwhelm  her  with  the  news.  She  snw,  however,  with 
the  quick  eyes  of  affection,  that  all  was  not  well  with  him.  blio 
marked  his  altered  looks  and  stifled  sighs,  and  was  not  to  be 
deceived  by  his  sickly  and  vapid  attempts  at  cheerfulness.  She 
tasked  all  her  sprightly  powers  and  tender  blandishments  to 
win  him  back  to  happiness;  but  she  only  drove  the  arrow 
deeper  into  his  soul.  The  more  he  saw  cause  to  love  her,  the 
more  torturing  was  the  thought  that  he  was  soon  to  make  her 
wretched.  A  little  while,  thought  he,  and  the  smile  will  vanish 
from  that  cheek  —  the  song  will  die  away  from  those  lips  —  the 
luster  of  those  eyes  will  be  quenched  with  sorrow  —  and  the 
happy  heart  which  now  beats  lightly  in  that  bosom,  will  be 
weighed  down,  like  mine,  by  the  cares  and  miseries  of  the 

world. 

At  length  he  came  to  me  one  day,  and  related  his  whole 
situation  in  a  tone  of  the  deepest  despair.  AVhen  I  had  heard 
him  through,  I  inquired,  «♦  Does  your  wife  know  all  this?"  At 
the  question  he  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears.  ♦ '  For  God's 
sake!  "  cried  he,  "if  you  have  any  pity  on  me,  don't  mention 
my  wife;  it  is  the  thought  of  her  that  drives  me  almost  to 
madness ! " 

"And  why  not?"  said  I.  "  She  must  know  it  sooner  or 
later:  you  cannot  keep  it  long  from  her,  and  the  intelligence 
Bs&y  break  upon  her  in  a  more  startling  manner  than  if  imparted 
by  yourself,  for  the  accents  of  those  we  love  soften  the  harshest 
tidings.  Besides,  you  are  depriving  yourself  of  the  comforts  of 
her  sympathy ;  and  not  merely  that,  but  also  endangering  the 
only  bond  that  can  keep  hearts  together  —  an  unreserved  com- 
munity of  thought  and  feeling.  She  will  soon  perceive  that 
something  is  secretly  preying  upon  your  nind ;  and  true  love 
will  not  brook  reserve:  it  feels  undervalued  and  outraged, 
when  even  the  sorrows  of  those  it  loves  are  concealed  from  it." 

"  Oh,  but  my  friend !  to  think  what  a  blow  I  am  to  give  to 
all  her  future  prospects  —  how  I  am  to  strike  her  very  soul  to 
the  earth,  by  telling  her  that  her  husband  is  a  begger  !  —  that 
she  is  to  forego  all  the  elegancies  of  life  —  all  the  pleasures  of 
society  —  to  shrink  with  m^  into  indigence  and  obscurity !  To 
tell  her  that  I  have  dragged  her  down  from  the  sphere  in  which 
she  might  have  continued  to  move  in  constant  brightness  —  the 
light  of  every  eye  —  the  admiration  of  every  heart !  —  How  can 
she  bear  poverty?  She  has  been  brought  up  in  all  the  refine- 
ments of  opulence.  How  can  she  bear  neglect?  She  has  been 
the  idol  of  society.  Oh,  it  will  break  her  heart  —  it  will  break 
her  heart  1 " 


THE    WIFE. 


28 


I  flaw  his  grief  was  eloquent,  and  I  !et  it  have  its  flow ;  fof 
sorrow  relieves  itself  by  words.  Wlien  bis  paroxysm  had  sub- 
sided, and  he  had  relapsed  into  moody  silence,  J  resumed  the 
subject  gently,  and  urged  him  to  break  his  .utuation  at  ouce  to 
bis  wife.     He  shook  his  head  mournfully,  but  positively. 

*'  But  how  are  you  to  keep  it  from  her?  It  is  necessary  she 
should  know  it,  that  you  may  take  the  steps  proper  to  the 
alteration  of  your  circumstances.  You  must  change  your  style 
of  living  —  nay,"  observing  a  pang  to  pass  across  his  coun- 
tenance, "don't  let  that  afflict  you.  I  am  sure  you  have 
never  placed  your  happiness  in  outward  show  —  you  have  yet 
friends,  warm  friends,  who  will  not  think  the  worse  of  you  for 
being  less  splendidly  lodged  :  and  surely  it  does  not  require  a 
palace  to  be  happy  with  Mary--"  "1  could  be  happy  with 
her,"  cried  he,  convulsively,  "  in  a  hovel !  — I  could  go  down 
with  her  into  poverty  and  the  dust !  —  I  could  —  I  could  —  God 
bless  her !  —  God  bless  her  !  "  cried  he,  bursting  into  a  trans- 
port of  grief  and  tenderness. 

"  And  believe  me,  my  friend,"  said  I,  stepping  up,  and 
grasping  him  warmly  by  the  hand,  "  believe  me,  she  can  be  the 
same  with  you.  Ay,  more:  it  will  be  a  source  of  pride  and 
triumph  to  her  —  it  will  call  forth  all  the  latent  energies  and 
fervent  sympathies  of  her  nature ;  for  she  will  rejoice  to  prove 
that  she  loves  you  for  yourself.  There  is  in  every  true 
woman's  heart  a  spark  of  heavenly  fire,  which  lies  dormant  in 
the  broad  daylight  of  prosperity;  but  which  kindles  up,  and 
beams  and  blazes  in  the  dark  hour  of  adversity.  No  man 
knows  what  the  wife  of  his  bosom  is  —  no  maii  knov  ^  what  a 
ministering  angel  she  is  —  until  he  has  gone  with  her  through 
the  fiery  trials  of  this  world." 

There  was  something  in  the  earnestness  of  my  manner,  and 
the  figurative  style  of  my  language  that  caught  the  excited 
imagination  of  Leslie.  I  knew  the  auditor  I  had  to  deal  with  ; 
and  following  up  the  impression  I  had  made,  I  finished  by  per- 
suading him  to  go  home  and  unburden  his  sad  heart  to  his 
wife. 

I  must  confess,  notwithstanding  all  I  had  said,  I  felt  some 
little  solicitude  for  tl.e  result.  Who  can  calculate  on  the  forti- 
tude of  one  whose  life  has  been  a  round  of  pleasures  ?  Her 
gay  spirits  might  revolt  at  the  dark,  downward  path  of  low 
humility,  suddenly  pointed  out  before  her,  and  might  cling 
to  the  sunny  regions  in  which  they  had  hitherto  revelled. 
Besides,  ruin  in  fashionable  life  is  accompanied  by  so  many 
galling  mortifications,  to  which,  in  other  ranks,  it  is  a  stranger. 


u 


I. 


24 


THE  SEETCU-BOOK. 


<"  In  short,  I  could  not  meet  Leslie,  the  next  rooming,  without 
trepiaation.     He  liad  made  the  disclosure. 
'  And  how  did  she  bear  it? " 

"  Like  an  angel !  It  seemed  rather  to  be  a  relief  to  her 
mind,  for  she  threw  her  amis  round  my  neck,  and  asked  if 
this  was  all  that  had  lately  made  me  unhappy.  —  But,  poor 
girl,"  added  he,  "  she  cannot  realize  the  change  we  must 
undergo.  She  has  no  idea  of  poverty  but  in  the  abstract :  shrj 
has  only  read  of  it  in  poetry,  where  it  is  allied  to  love.  She 
feels  as  yet  no  privation :  she  suffers  no  loss  of  aoonstoined 
conveniences  nor  elegancies.  When  we  come  pnicticaily  to 
exi  -'rience  its  sordid  cares,  its  paltry  wants,  its  petty  humilia- 
tions—  then  will  be  the  real  trial." 

"But,"  said  I,  "now  that  j-ou  have  got  over  the  severest 
task,  that  of  breaking  it  to  her,  the  sooner  you  let  the  world 
into  the  secret  the  better.  The  disclosure  may  be  mortifying ; 
but  then  it  is  a  single  misery,  and  soon  over;  whereas  you 
otherwise  suffer  it,  in  anticipation,  every  hour  in  the  day.  It 
is  not  poverty,  so  much  as  pretence,  that  harasses  a  ruined  man 
—  "!  struggle  between  a  proud  mind  and  an  cin[)ty  purse  — 
the  keeping  up  a  hollow  show  that  must  soon  come  to  an  end. 
Have  the  courage  Ixj  appear  poor,  and  you  disarm  poverty  of 
its  sharpest  sting."  On  this  point  I  found  Leslie  perfectly 
prepared.  He  had  no  false  pride  himself,  and  as  to  his  wife, 
she  was  only  anxious  to  conform  to  their  altered  fortunes. 

Some  days  afterwards,  he  called  upon  me  in  tlie  evening. 
He  had  disposed  of  his  dwelling-house,  and  taken  a  small  cot- 
tage in  the  country,  a  few  miles  from  town.  lie  had  been 
busied  all  day  in  «»nding  out  furniture.  The  new  establish- 
ment required  few  articles,  and  those  of  the  simplest  kind. 
All  the  splendid  furniture  of  his  lato  residence  had  lu-en  sold, 
excepting  his  wife's  harp.  That,  ho  said,  was  too  closely  asso- 
'•iated  with  the  idea  of  herself;  it  belonged  to  ihc  little  story 
>f  their  loves;  for  some  of  the  sweetest  nionicnts  of  their 
L'ourtship  were  those  when  he  iiad  leaned  over  that  iustrumeui. 
!iud  listened  to  the  melting  tones  of  her  voice.  I  could  notj 
but  smile  at  this  instance  of  romantic  jiallantry  in  a  doting 
Imshnnd 

He  was  now  going  out  to  the  cottage,  where  his  wife  had 
been  all  lay,  superintending  its  arraiigeiiuMit.  My  feelinirs 
had  become  strongly  interested  in  the  jirogress  of  this  familv 
story,  and  as  it  was  a  fine  evening,  I  offered  to  accompany  him. 

He  was  wearied  with  the  fatigues  of  the  day,  and  as  we 
walked  out,  fell  into  a  lit  of  gloomy  musing. 


\ 


THE  WIFE. 


25 


"  Poor  Mary !  "  at  length  broke,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  from  his 

lips. 
♦'  And  what  of  her,"  asked  I,  "  has  any  thing  happened  to 

her?" 

"  What,"  said  he,  darting  an  impatient  glance,  "  is  it  noth- 
ing to  be  reduced  to  this  paltry  situation  —  to  be  caged  in  a 
raiaerable  cottage  —  to  be  obliged  to  toil  almost  in  the  menial 
concerns  of  her  wretched  habitation?" 

"  Has  she  then  repined  at  the  change  ?" 

'^  Repined!  she  has  been  nothing  but  sweetness  and  good 
humor.  Indeed,  she  seems  in  better  spirits  than  I  have  ever 
known  her ;  she  has  been  to  me  all  love,  and  tenderness,  and 
comfort ! " 

''  Admirable  girl !  "  exclaimed  I.  "  You  call  yourself  poor, 
my  friend ;  you  never  were  so  rich  —  you  never  knew  the  bound- 
less treasures  of  excellence  you  possess  in  that  woman." 

"  Oh !  but  my  friend,  if  this  first  meeting  at  the  cottage 
were  over,  I  think  I  could  then  be  comfortable.  But  this  is 
her  first  day  of  real  experience :  she  has  been  introduced  into 
a  urable  dwelling  —  she  has  been  employed  all  day  in  arrang- 
ing its  miserable  eqtnpments  —  she  has  for  the  first  time  known 
the  fatigues  of  domestic  employment  —  she  has  for  the  first 
time  looked  round  her  on  a  home  destitute  of  every  thing  ele- 
gant—  almost  of  every  thing  convenient;  and  may  now  be 
sitting  down,  exhausted  and  spiritless,  brooding  over  a  prospect 
of  future  poverty." 

Tiiere  was  a  degree  of  probability  in  this  picture  that  I  could 
not  gainsay,  so  we  walked  on  in  silence. 

After  turning  from  the  main  road,  up  a  narrow  lane,  so 
thickly  shaded  with  forest  trees  as  to  give  it  a  complete  air  of 
seclusion,  we  came  in  sight  of  the  cottage.  It  was  humble 
eiiougli  in  its  appearance  for  the  most  pastoral  poet;  and  yet 
it  JKul  a  pleasing  rural  look.  A  wild  vine  had  overrun  one  end 
with  a  profusion  of  foliage ;  a  few  trees  threw  their  branches 
gracefully  over  it ;  and  I  observed  several  pots  of  flowers  taste- 
fully disposed  about  the  door,  and  on  the  grass-plot  in  front. 
A  small  wicket-gate  opened  upon  a  footpath  that  wound  through 
some  shrubbery  to  the  door.  Just  as  we  approached,  we  heard 
the  sound  of  music  —  Leslie  grasped  my  arm ;  we  paused  and 
listened.  It  was  Mary's  voice,  singing,  in  a  style  of  the  most 
touching  simplicity,  a  little  air  of  which  her  husband  was 
peculiarly  fond. 

I  felt  Leslie's  hand  tremble  on  my  arm.  He  stepped  forward, 
to  hear  more  distinctly.     His  step  made  a  noise  ou  the  gravel 


^I'r 


AV\ 


'111 


,i»- 


26 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


walk.  A  bright  beautiful  face  glanced  out  at  the  window,  and 
vanished  — a  light  footstep  was  heard  — and  Mary  came  trip- 
ping forth  to  meet  us.  She  was  in  a  pretty  rural  dress  of 
white ;  a  few  wild  flowers  were  twisted  in  her  fine  hair ;  a  fresh 
bloom  was  on  her  chetk  ;  her  whole  countenance  beamed  with 
smiles  —  I  had  never  seon  her  look  so  lovely. 

"  My  dear  George,"  cried  she,  '  I  am  so  glad  you  are  come ; 
I  have  been  watching  and  wat'Aing  for  jou  ;  and  running 
down  the  lane,  and  looking  out  for  you.  I've  set  out  a  table 
under  a  beautiful  tree  behind  the  cottage  ;  and  I've  been  gath- 
ering some  of  the  most  delicious  strawberries,  for  I  know  you 
are  fond  of  them  —  and  we  have  such  excellent  cream  —  and 
every  thing  is  so  sweet  and  still  here.  —  Oh  !  "  said  she,  putting 
her  arm  within  his,  and  looking  up  brightly  in  his  face,  "Oh, 
we  shall  be  so  happy!  " 

Poor  Leslie  was  overcome.  —  He  caught  her  to  his  bosom  — 
he  folded  his  arms  round  her  —  he  kissed  her  again  and  again 
—  he  coukl  not  speak,  but  the  tears  gushed  into  his  eyes;  and 
he  has  often  assured  me  that  thougli  the  world  has  since  gone 
prosperously  with  liim,  and  his  life  has  indeed  been  a  happy 
one,  yet  never  has  he  experienced  a  moment  of  more  exquisite 
felicity. 


[The  following  Tale  was  found  among  the  papers  of  the  late 
Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  an  old  gentleman  of  New- York,  who 
was  very  curious  in  tlie  Dutch  History  of  the  province,  and  the 
manners  of  the  descendants  from  its  primitive  settlers.  His 
historical  researches,  however,  did  not  lie  so  much  among  books 
as  among  men ;  for  the  former  are  lamentably  scanty  on  his 
favorite  topics ;  whereas  he  found  the  old  burghers,  and  still 
more,  their  wives,  rich  in  that  legendary  lore,  so  invaluable  to 
true  history.  Whenever,  tlierefore,  he  happened  upon  a  genu- 
ine Dutch  family,  snugly  shut  up  in  its  low-roofed  farmhouse, 
under  a  spreading  sycamore,  he  looked  upon  it  as  a  little 
clasped  volume  of  black-letter,  and  studied  it  with  the  zeal  of 
a  bookworm. 

The  result  of  all  these  researches  was  a  history  of  the  prov- 
ince, during  the  reign  of  the  Dutch  governors,  which  he  pub- 
lished some  years  since.  There  have  becL  various  opinions  as 
to  the  literary  character  of  his  work,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it 
18  not  a  whit  better  than  it  should  be.  Its  cliief  merit  is  its 
8crUi»ulous  accuracy,  which,  indeed,  was  a  little  questioned,  on 


A  POSTKUl 


■1 


RIP    VAN   WINKLE. 


27 


its  flrst  appearauce,  but  has  since  been  completely  established; 
tiud  it  is  now  admitted  into  all  historical  collections,  as  a  book 
of  unquestionable  authority. 

The  old  gentleman  died  shortly  after  the  publication  of  his 
work,  and  now,  that  he  is  dead  and  gone,  it  cannot  do  much 
barm  to  his  memory,  to  say,  that  his  time  might  have  been 
much  better  employed  in  weightiei  labors.  He,  however,  was 
apt  to  ride  his  hobby  his  own  way  ;  and  though  it  did  now  and 
then  kick  up  the  dust  a  little  in  the  eyes  of  his  neighbors,  and 
grieve  the  sp  lit  of  some  friends  for  whom  he  felt  the  truest 
deference  and  affection,  yet  his  error  nd  follies  are  remem- 
bered "more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,"'  and  it  begins  to  be 
suspected,  that  he  never  intended  to  injure  or  offend.  But 
however  his  memory  may  be  appreciated  by  critics,  it  is  still 
held  dear  bj'  many  folk,  whose  good  op.iiiou  is  well  worth 
having :  particularly  by  certain  biscuit-bakers,  who  have  gone 
so  far  as  to  imprint  his  likeness  on  tluMr  new-year  cakes,  and 
have  thus  given  iiini  a  chance  for  iininortality,  almost  equal  to 
the  being  stamped  on  a  Waterloo  medal,  or  a  Queen  Anne's 
farthing.] 


1)1^^ 


I'  '■ 


Rir  VAN   WINKLE. 

A   POSTKUMOUS    WRITING    OF    DIEDRICH    KNICKERBOCKER. 

By  Woden,  Qod  of  SaxouH, 

From  whoiice  comes  Weiisday,  thai  in  Wodeusday, 

Truth  m  u  thiiiK  that  ever  I  wll!  keep 

I    to  thylke  day  in  which  I  croep  luto 

My  sepulchre. —  Cartwbioht. 

Whoever  has  made  a  voyage  up  the  Hudson,  must  remem- 
ber the  Kaatskill  mountains.  They  are  a  dismembered  branch 
of  the  great  Appalachian  family,  and  are  seen  away  to  the  west 
of  the  river,  swelling  up  to  a  noble  height,  and  lording  it  over 
the  suri'ounding  country.  Every  change  of  season,  every  change 
of  weather,  indeed  every  hour  of  the  day,  produces  some  change 
in  the  magical  hues  and  shapes  of  these  mountains  ;  and  they 
are  regartled  by  all  the  good  wives,  far  and  near,  as  perfect 
barometers.  When  the  weather  is  fair  and  settled,  they  are 
clothed  in  blue  and  purple,  and  print  their  bold  outlines  on  the 
clear  evening  sky  ;  but  sometimes,  when  the  rest  of  the  land- 
scape  is   cloudless,  they  will   gather  a   hood   of   gray  vapors 


<  Vide  the  ezoell«ut  discourae  of  U.  C  Verplaack,  Knq.,  Ujforo  the  New-Yuik 

Ulstorioitl  Society. 


l!,lrt: 


i  I'  I. 


1  ■   '  ■ 

^  -^  if  r' 


.iiv 


28 


THE  SKETCn-BOOK. 


.'    \\ 


r  ( 


1  #    ^' 


about  thoir  summits,  which,  in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun, 
will  glow  aud  light  up  like  a  crown  of  glory. 

At  the  foot  of  these  fairy  mountains,  the  voyager  may  have 
descried  the  light  smoke  curling  up  from  a  village,  whose  shin- 
gle roofs  gleam  among  the  trees,  just  where  the  blue  tints  of 
the  upland  melt  away  into  the  fresh  green  of  the  nearer  land- 
scape. It  is  a  little  village  of  great  antiquity,  having  been 
founded  by  some  of  the  Dutch  colonists,  in  the  early  times  of 
the  province,  just  about  the  beginning  of  the  government  of  the 
good  Peter  IStuyvesant  (may  he  rest  in  peace !)  and  there  were 
some  of  the  houses  of  the  original  settlers  standing  within  a 
few  years,  built  of  small  yellow  l)ricks  brought  from  Holland, 
having  latticed  windows  and  gable  fronts,  surmounted  with 
weathercocks. 

In  that  same  village,  and  in  one  of  these  very  houses  (which 
to  tell  the  precise  truth,  was  sadly  time-worn  and  weather- 
beaten),  there  lived  many  years  since,  while  the  country  was 
yet  a  province  of  Groat  Britain,  a  simple,  good-natui-ed  fellow, 
of  the  name  of  Rip  Van  Winkle.  He  was  a  descendant  of  the 
Van  Winkles  who  figured  so  gallantly  in  the  chivalrous  days 
of  Peter  Stuj'vesant,  and  accompanied  him  to  the  siege  of  fort 
Christina.  He  inherited,  however,  but  little  of  the  martial 
character  of  his  ancestors.  I  have  observed  that  he  ,vas  a 
simple  good-natured  man  ;  he  was  moreover  a  kind  neighbor, 
and  an  obedient  henpecked  husband.  Indeed,  to  the  latter 
circumstance  might  be  owing  that  meekness  of  spirit  which 
gained  him  such  universal  popularity ;  for  those  men  are  most 
apt  to  be  obsequious  aud  conciliating  abroad,  who  are  under  the 
discipline  of  shrews  at  home.  Their  tempers,  doubtless,  are 
rendered  pliant  and  malleable  in  the  fiery  furnace  of  domestic 
tribulation,  and  a  curtain  lecture  is  wortii  all  the  sermons  in 
the  world  for  teaching  the  virtues  of  patience  and  long-suffering. 
A  termagant  wife  may.  tl»erefore,  in  some  respects,  be  consid- 
ered a  tolerable  blessiiv  •  md  if  so,  Kip  Van  Winkle  was  thrice 
blessed. 

Certain  it  is,  that  be  was  a  ,.^ieat  favo.ite  among  all  the  good 
wives  of  the  village,  who,  r.s  usuf'  ^.ith  the  amiable  .s^'x,  took 
his  part  in  all  family  iiquabli'e.  iv.X  never  failed,  'whenever 
they  talked  those  matters  •  vr-  in  tl 
lay  all  the  blame  on  Dar ;  '•  uu  W 
village,  too,  would  shoui.  ..ii:i  jov 
He  assisted  at  their  sports,  midc  f'.i' 
to  rty  kites  aud  shoot  marli!  >  ,  ",;>d 

VVl. 


ghosts,  witches,   and   Indians. 


Mr  eveai'ig  gossipmgs,  to 
Jde.     The  ohi'.lren  of  the 

wl;enever  he  ;t.pproached. 
;>•  pi  ay  tilings,  taught  them 

•■  »ld  them  long  stories  of 

;uever    he    went 


dodging 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE. 


29 


ftbout  the  village,  he  was  stirroiinded  bj'  a  troop  of  them  hang- 
ing on  his  skirts,  clambering  on  his  back,  and  playing  a  thou- 
sand tricks  on  him  with  imi)uiiity  ;  and  not  a  dog  would  bark 
at  him  throughout  the  neighborliood. 

The  great  error  in  Ivip's  composition  was  an  insuperable 
aversion  to  all  kinds  of  jtrolltable  labor.  It  could  not  be  from 
the  want  of  assiduity  or  i)erseveranee ;  for  he  would  sit  on  a 
wet  rock,  with  a  rod  as  long  and  heavy  as  a  Tartar's  lance,  and 
fish  all  day  without  a  uiurmur,  even  tliough  he  should  not  be 
encouraged  by  a  single  uibl)le.  He  would  carry  a  fowling-piece 
on  his  shoulder  for  hcur-i  together,  trudging  through  woods  and 
swamps,  and  up  hill  anJ  down  dale,  to  shoot  a  few  squirrels  or 
wild  pigeons.  He  wouiiil  never  refuse  to  assist  a  neighbor, 
even  in  tlie  roughest  toil,  and  was  a  foremost  man  at  all  rjountry 
frolics  for  husking  iiidian  corn  or  building  stone  fences.  The 
women  of  the  vilhiLxs  too,  used  to  employ  him  to  run  their 
errands,  and  to  do  such  little  odd  jobs  as  tht'ir  less  obliging 
husbands  would  not  do  iov  thmi ;  —  in  a  word,  Kip  was  ready  to 
attend  to  anybody's  bui^liiess  but  his  own  ;  but  as  to  doing  family 
duty,  and  keeping  his  farm  in  order,  he  found  it  impossible. 

In  fact,  he  declared  it  was  of  uo  use  to  work  on  liis  farm  ;  it 

as  the  most  pestilent  little  piece  of  ground  in  the  whole  coun- 
try;  every  thing  about  it  went  wrong,  and  would  go  wrong  in 
spite  of  him.  His  fences  were  continually  falling  to  pieces; 
his  cow  would  eitlier  go  astray,  or  get  among  the  cabbages ; 
weeds  were  sure  to  grow  (juicker  in  his  (ields  than  anywhere 
else ;  the  rain  always  made  a  point  of  setting  in  just  as  he  had 
some  out-door  work  to  do ;  so  that  though  his  patrimonial 
estate  li..d  dwindled  away  under  his  management,  acre  by  acre, 
until  tiiere  was  little  more  left  than  a  mere  patch  of  Indian 
corn  and  potatoes,  yet  it  wat*  the  worst  conditioned  farm  in  the 
neigiiitorliood. 

His  ciiildren,  too,  were  as  ragged  and  wild  as  if  they  be- 
longed to  nobody.  His  son  Rip,  an  urchin  begotten  in  his  own 
likeness,  promised  to  inherit  the  habits,  with  the  old  clothes  of 
his  fatlier.  He  was  generally  seen  trooping  like  a  colt  at  his 
mother's  heels,  equipped  in  a  pair  of  his  father's  cast-off  galli- 
gaskins, which  he  had  much  ado  to  hold  up  with  one  hand,  as 
a  fine  lady  does  her  train  in  bad  weather. 

Itip  Van  Winkle,  however,  was  one  of  those  happy  mortals, 
of  foolish,  well-oiled  dispositions,  who  take  the  world  easy,  eat 
white  broad  or  brown,  whichever  can  be  got  with  least  thought 
or  trouble,  and  would  rather  starve  on  a  penny  than  work  for  a 
pound.    If  left  to  himself,  he  would  have  whistled  life  away  in 


, 


i 


>i       I  i 


I   I 


8d 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


if 


'<:  i 


perfect  contentment ;  but  his  wife  kept  continually  dinning  io 
his  ears  about  his  idleness,  his  carelessness,  and  the  ruin  he 
was  bringing  on  his  family. 

Morning,  noon,  and  night,  her  tongue  was  incessantly  going, 
and  every  thing  he  said  or  did  was  sure  to  produce  a  torrent  of 
household  eloquence.  Rip  had  but  one  way  of  replying  to  al! 
lectures  of  the  kind,  and  that,  by  frequent  use,  had  grovn  into 
a  habit.  He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook  his  head,  cast  up 
his  eyes,  but  said  nothing.  This,  however,  always  provoked  a 
fresh  volley  from  his  wife,  so  that  he  was  fain  to  draw  off  his 
forces,  and  take  to  the  outside  of  the  house  —  the  only  side 
which,  in  truth,  belongs  to  a  henpecked  husband. 

Rip's  sole  domestic  adherent  was  his  dog  Wolf,  who  was  as 
much  henpecked  as  his  master ;  for  Dame  Van  Winkle  regarded 
them  as  companions  in  idleness,  and  even  looked  upon  Wolf 
with  an  evil  eye  as  the  cause  of  his  master's  going  so  often 
astray.  True  it  is,  in  all  points  of  spirit  befitting  an  honorable 
dog,  he  was  as  ■  u  irageous  an  animal  as  ever  scoured  the  woods 
—  but  what  courage  can  withstand  the  ever-during  and  all-be- 
BPt^ing  terrors  of  a  woman's  tongue?  The  moment  Wolf 
ent^^red  the  house,  his  crest  fell,  his  tail  droope('.  ^o  the  ground, 
'^r  curled  between  his  legs,  he  sneaked  about  with  a  gallows  air, 
•^sting  many  a  sidelong  glance  at  Dame  Van  Winkle,  and  at 
'  ae  least  flourish  of  a  broomstick  or  ladle,  he  would  fly  to  the 
door  with  yelpin  ^  precipitation. 

Times  grew  worse  and  worse  with  Rip  V^n  Winkle,  as  years 
of  matrimony  rcJ!  id  on  :  a  tart  temper  n'iver  lueilows  with  age, 
and  a  sharp  tongue  is  the  only  edge  'oo!  fhrtt  j^'u  ws  keener  with 
constant  use.  For  a  long  while  he  iisod  to  co;>sole  himself, 
when  driven  from  home,  by  frequer rin;^  ti  kind  i.'f  perpetual 
club  of  the  sages,  philosophers,  and  olli":-  iulc  ut^-onages  ol 
the  village,  wliich  held  its  sessions  on  a  boiich  before  a  ssnaH 
(dd,  designued  by  a  rubicund  portrait  of  ii  aajtsi;/  George 
the  Third.  Here  they  used  to  sit  ii;  the  slia  ,  of  a  long  lazy 
summer's  day,  talking  listlessly  on-  villngc  \  )ssip,  o»-  telling 
endless  sleepy  stories  a,„out  notbiiig.  But  it  ^  »uic'  hav«  been 
•Yorth  any  stiitcsOian's  money  to  h  ve  heard  the  profound  discus- 
dious  that  sometimes  took  place,  vfhen  by  chanco  an  old  nevv.s 
paper  fell  into  their  hands,  from  aome  passing  tcaveller.  How 
solemnly  th<;y  would  listen  m  the  contents,  as  drawled  out  h; 
Derrick  Van  liiiimuel,  the  schoolmaster,  a  dapper  hiarued  little 
inaD,  who  was  not  to  be  daunted  by  the  most  gigantic  word  in 
the  dictionary ;  and  how  sagely  they  woul(>  delil)eiate  upon 
public  events  some  uiuiUis  after  Ihey  uvui  taken  placet. 


of 
all 

into 

up 

i  a 

his 

side 


RIP   VAN   WINKLE. 


The  opinions  of  this  junto  were  completely  controlled  by 
Nicholas  Vedder,  a  patriarch  of  the  village,  and  landlord  of  the 
inn,  at  the  door  of  which  he  took  his  seat  from  morning  till 
night,  just  moving  sufficientlj  to  avoid  the  sun,  and  keep  in 
the  siiade  of  a  huge  tree ;  so  that  the  neighbors  could  tell  the 
hour  by  his  movements  as  accurately  as  by  a  sun-dial.  It  is 
true,  he  was  rurely  heard  to  speak,  but  smoked  his  pipe  inces- 
santly. His  adherents,  however  (for  every  great  man  has  his 
adherents),  perfectly  understood  him,  and  knew  how  to  gathef 
his  opinions.  When  any  thing  that  was  read  or  related  dis- 
pleased him,  he  was  observed  to  smoke  his  pipe  vehemently, 
and  to  send  forth  short,  h\  \  .  :nt,  and  angry  puffs ;  but  when 
pleased,  he  would  inliale  the  smoke  slowly  and  tranquilly,  and 
emit  it  in  light  and  placid  clouds,  and  sometimes  taking  the 
pipe  f»'oni  his  mouth,  and  letting  the  fragrant  vapor  curl  about 
his  nose,  would  gravely  nod  his  head  in  token  of  perfect  appro- 
bation. 

From  even  this  strong  hold  the  unlucky  Rip  was  at  length 
routed  by  his  ternmgant  wife,  who  would  suddenly  break  in 
upon  the  tranquillity  of  the  assemblage,  and  call  the  members 
all  to  nought ;  nor  was  that  august  personage,  Nicholas  Vedder 
iiiinself,  sacred  fioin  the  daring  tongiic  of  this  terrible  virago, 
who  clKUiicd  hiui  outright  with  encouraging  her  husband  in 


liiihils  of  idleness. 

Toor  Kip  was  at  last  reduced  almost  to  despair,  and  his  only 
altcnii'.tiv'c  to  escape  from  the  labor  of  the  farm  and  clamor 
of  Ills  wife,  was  to  take  gnu  in  liand,  and  stroll  away  into 
tlio  woods.  Ilt'ic  he  would  sometimes  seat  himself  at  the 
foot  ^,f  a  tree,  and  shaie  the  contents  of  his  wallet  with  Wolf, 
with  wliom  he  sympathized  as  a  fellow-sufferer  in  persecution. 
"  I'uor  Wolf,"  he  would  say,  "  thy  mistress  leads  thee  a  dog's 
life  of  it ;  but  never  n)ind,  my  lad,  whilst  1  live  thou  shalt 
never  want  a  frietid  to  stand  by  thee  !  "  Wolf  would  wag  his 
tail,  look  wistfull;y  in  his  master's  face,  and  if  dogs  can  feel 
pity,  I  verily  believe  he  reciprocated  the  sentiment  with  all  his 
heart. 

In  a  long  ramf/J*'  of  the  kind,  on  a  fine  autumnal  day.  Rip 
had  unconsciously  s<Tambled  U>  one  of  the  highest  parts  of  the 
Kaalskill  mountains.  He  was  after  his  favorite  sfK>rt  of 
squirrel-shooting,  and  tlie  still  solitudes  had  o<'hoed  and  re- 
echoed with  the  reports  of  his  gun.  Panting  and  fatigued,  be 
threw  himself.  lo.te  in  tlu'  aCU-rnoon,  on  a  green  knoll  covered 
with  mountain  herbage,  that  crowned  the  brow  of  a  precipice. 
From  an  opening  between  the  treex,  he  could  overlook  all  the 


■'I     * 


32 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK 


N 


lower  country  for  many  a  mile  of  rich  woodland.  He  saw  at  a 
distance  the  lordly  Hudson  ,  far,  far  below  him,  moving  on  its 
silent  but  majestic  course,  with  the  reflection  of  a  purple  cloiul, 
or  the  sail  of  a  lagging  bark,  here  and  there  sleeping  on  its 
glassy  bosom,  and  at  last  losing  itself  in  the  blue  highlands. 

On  the  other  side  he  looked  down  into  a  deep  mountain  glen, 
wild,  lonely,  and  shagged,  the  bottom  filled  with  fragments 
from  tlie  impending  clifls,  and  scarcely  lighted  by  the  reflected 
rays  of  the  setting  sun.  For  some  time  Rip  lay  musing  on  this 
scene  ;  evening  was  gradually  advancing  ;  the  mountains  began 
to  throw  th  •  long  blue  shadows  over  the  valleys  ;  he  saw  that 
it  would  be  dark  long  before  he  could  reach  the  village ;  and 
he  heaved  a  heavy  sigh  when  he  thought  of  encountering  the 
terrors  of  Dame  Van  Winkle. 

As  he  was  aliout  to  descend  he  heard  a  voice  from  a  distance 
hallooing,  '•  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  Rij)  Van  Winkle  !  "  He  looked 
round,  but  could  see  nothing  but  a  crow  winging  its  solitary 
flight  across  the  mountain.  He  tho-:ght  liis  fancy  must  have 
deceived  him,  and  turned  again  to  dL.-i.7eud,  when  he  heard  the 
same  cry  ring  through  the  still  eveiiing  air,  "  Rip  Van  Winkle! 
Rip  Van  Winkle!"  —  at  the  same  time  Wolf  bristled  up  his 
back,  and  giving  a  low  grcwl,  skulked  to  his  master's  side, 
looking  fearfully  down  into  the  glen.  Rip  now  felt  a  vague 
apprehension  stealing  over  him :  he  looked  anxiously  in  tiie 
same  direction,  and  perceived  a  Strang  figure  slowly  toiliiii; 
up  the  rocks,  and  bending  under  the  w.'ight  of  something  he- 
carried  on  his  back.  He  was  surprised  to  see  any  human  being 
in  this  lonely  and  unfrequented  place,  but  supposing  it  to  be 
some  one  of  the  neighborhood  in  need  of  his  assistance,  he 
hastened  down  to  yield  it. 

On  nearer  approach,  he  was  still  more  surprised  at  the  singu- 
larity of  the  stranger's  appearance.  He  was  a  short  square- 
built  old  fellow,  with  tliick  bushy  hair,  and  a  grizzled  beard. 
His  dress  was  of  the  antique  Dutch  fashion  —  a  cloth  jerkin 
strapped  round  the  waist  —  several  pair  of  breeches,  the  outer 
one  of  ample  volume,  decorated  with  rows  of  buttons  down  the 
sides,  and  bunches  at  the  knees.  He  bore  on  his  shoulder  a 
stout  keg,  that  seemed  full  of  liquor,  and  made  signs  for  Rip 
to  approach  and  assist  him  with  tlie  load.  Though  ratiier  shy 
and  distrustful  of  this  new  awiuaintance.  Rip  complied  with 
his  usual  alacrity,  au'l  mutually  relieving  one  another,  they 
clambered  up  a  narrow  gully,  apparently  the  dry  bed  of  a 
mountain  torrent.  As  they  ascended.  Rip  every  now  and  tlien 
heard  long  rolling  peals,  like  uiatuut  thunder,  that  seemed  to 


BIP  VAN  WINKLE. 


33 


issue  out  of  a  deep  ravine  or  rather  cleft  between  lofty  rocks, 
towHfd  which  their  rugged  path  couducted.  He  paused  for  an 
instant,  but  supposiug  it  to  be  the  muttering  of  one  of  those 
tnuisieut  thunder-showers  which  often  take  place  in  mountain 
heights,  he  proceeded.  Tassing  through  the  ravine,  they  came 
to  a  iiollow,  like  a  small  amphitheatre,  surrounded  by  perpen- 
dicular precipices,  over  the  brinks  of  which,  impending  trees 
shot  their  branches,  so  that  you  only  caught  glimpses  of  the 
azure  sky,  and  the  bright  evening  cloud.  During  the  whole 
tiiiKs  Kip  and  his  companion  had  labored  on  in  silence;  for 
though  the  former  marvelled  greatly  what  could  be  the  object 
of  carvylng  a  keg  of  liquor  up  tliis  wihl  mountain,  yet  there  was 
sometliing  strange  and  incomprehensible  about  the  unknown, 
that  inspired  awe,  and  checked  familiarity. 

On  entering  the  amphitheatre,  new  objects  of  wonder  pre- 
sented themselves.  On  a  level  spot  in  the  centre  was  a  com- 
pany of  odd-looking  personages  playing  at  nine-pins.  They 
were  dressed  in  a  quaint  outlandish  fashion  :  some  wore  short 
doublets,  others  jerkins,  with  long  knives  in  their  belts,  and 
most  of  them  had  enormous  breeches,  of  similar  style  with  that 
of  tiie  guide's.  Their  visages,  too,  were  peculiar;  one  had  a 
large  beard,  broad  face,  and  small  piggish  eyes ;  the  face  of  an- 
other seemed  to  consist  entirely  of  nose,  and  was  surmounted 
hy  a  white  sugar-loaf  hat,  set  off  with  a  little  red  cock's  tail. 
They  all  had  beards,  of  various  shapes  and  colors.  There 
was  one  who  seemed  to  be  the  commander.  He  was  a  stout 
old  gentleman,  with  a  weatlier-beateu  countenance;  he  wore  a 
laced  doublet,  broad  belt  and  hanger,  high-crowned  hat  and 
feather,  red  stockings,  and  high-heeled  slioes,  with  roses  in 
them.  Tlie  whole  gr()U[k  reminded  Rip  of  the  figures  in  an  old 
Flemish  painting,  in  the  parlor  of  Dominie  Van  Shaick,  the  vil- 
lage parson,  and  wnich  had  been  brought  over  from  Holland  at 
the  time  of  the  settlement. 

Wliat  seemed  particularly  odd  to  Rip,  was,  that  though  tliese 
folks  were  evidently  amusing  themselves,  yet  they  maintained 
the  gravest  faces,  the  most  mysterious  silence,  and  were,  withal, 
the  most  melancholy  party  of  pleasure  he  had  ever  witnessed. 
Notliing  interrupted  the  stillness  of  the  scene  but  the  noise  of 
the  balls,  which,  wlienever  they  were  rolled,  echoed  along  the 
mountains  like  rumbling  peals  of  thunder. 

As  Rip  and  his  companion  approached  them,  they  suddenly 
desisted  from  their  play,  and  stared  at  him  with  such  fixed 
Btatu'^-like  gaze,  and  such  Btrange,  uncouth,  lack-lustre  coun- 
tenances, that  his  heart  turned  within  him,  and  bis  kuees  smote 


:;iiiJ 


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I 


34 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK. 


together.  His  companion  now  emptied  the  contents  of  the  keg 
into  large  flagons,  and  made  signs  to  him  to  wait  upon  the  com- 
pany. He  obeyed  with  fear  and  trembling ;  they  quaffed  the 
liquor  in  profound  silence,  and  then  returned  to  their  game. 

By  degrees,  Rip's  awe  and  apprehension  subsided.  He  even 
ventured,  when  no  eye  was  fixed  upon  him,  to  taste  the  bev- 
erage, which  he  found  had  much  of  the  flavor  of  excellent 
Hollands.  He  was  naturally  a  thirsty  soul,  and  was  soon 
tempted  to  repeat  the  draught.  One  taste  provoked  another, 
and  he  reiterated  his  visits  to  the  flagon  so  often,  that  at  length 
his  senses  were  overpowered,  his  eyes  swam  in  his  head,  bis 
head  gradually  declined,  and  he  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

On  waking,  he  found  himself  ou  the  green  knoll  whence 
he  had  first  seen  the  old  man  of  the  glen.     He  rubbed  his  eyes 

—  it  was  a  bright  sunny  morning.  The  birds  were  hopping  and 
twittering  among  the  bushes,  and  the  eagle  was  wheeling  aloft, 
and  breasting  the  pure  mountain  breeze.  "  Surely,"  thought 
Kip,  "  I  have  not  slept  here  all  night."  He  recalled  the  occur- 
rences before  he  fell  asleep.  The  strange  man  with  the  keg  of 
liquor  —  the  mountain  ravine  —  the  wild  retreat  among  the  rocks 

—  the  wo-begone  party  at  nine-pins  —  the  flagon  —  "  Oh !  that 
flagon !  that  wicked  flagon !  "  thought  Rip —  "  what  excuse  shall 
I  make  to  Dame  Van  Winkle  ? " 

He  looked  round  for  his  gun,  but  in  place  of  the  clean  well- 
oiled  fowling-piece,  he  found  an  old  fire-lock  lying  by  him,  the 
barrel  encrusted  with  rust,  the  lock  falling  off,  and  the  stock 
worm-eaten.  He  now  suspected  that  the  grave  roysters  of  the 
mountain  had  put  a  trick  upon  him,  and  haviug  dosed  him  with 
liquor,  had  robbed  him  of  his  gun.  Wolf,  too,  had  disappeared, 
but  he  might  have  strayed  away  after  a  squirrel  or  partridge. 
He  whistled  after  him,  and  shouted  his  name,  but  all  in  vain ; 
the  echoes  repeated  his  whistle  and  shout,  but  no  dog  was  to  be 
seen. 

He  determined  to  revisit  the  scene  of  the  last  evening's 
gambol,  and  if  he  met  with  any  of  the  party,  to  demand  his 
dog  and  gun.  As  he  rose  to  walk,  he  found  himself  stiff  in  the 
joints,  and  wanting  in  his  usual  activity.  "  These  mountain 
beds  do  not  agree  with  me,"  thought  Rip,  "  and  if  this  frolic 
should  lay  me  up  with  a  fit  of  the  rheumatism,  I  shall  have  a 
blessed  time  with  Dame  Van  Winkle."  With  some  difficulty 
he  got  down  into  the  glen ;  he  found  the  gully  up  which  he  and 
his  companion  had  ascended  the  preceding  evening ;  but  to  his 
astonishment  a  mountain  stream  was  now  foaming  down  it, 
leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  and  filling  the  glen  with  babbling 


\\ 


RIP    VAN    WINKLE. 


35 


murmorB.  He,  however,  made  shift  to  scramble  up  its  sides, 
working  his  toilsome  way  through  thickets  of  birch,  sassafras, 
and  witch-hazel ;  and  sometimes  tripped  up  or  entangled  by  the 
wild  grape  vines  that  twisted  their  coils  or  tendrils  from  tree  to 
tree,  and  spread  a  kind  of  network  in  his  path. 

At  length  he  reached  to  where  the  ravine  had  opened  through 
the  cliffs  to  the  amphitheatre ;  but  no  traces  of  such  opening 
remained.  The  rocks  presented  a  high  impenetrable  wall,  over 
which  the  torrent  came  tumbling  in  a  sheet  of  feathery  foam, 
and  fell  into  a  broad  deep  basin,  black  from  the  shadows  of 
the  surrounding  forest.  Here,  then,  poor  Rip  was  brought  to 
a  stand.  He  again  called  and  whistled  after  his  dog ;  he  was 
only  answered  by  the  cawing  of  a  flock  of  idle  crows,  sporting 
high  in  air  about  a  dry  tree  that  overhung  a  sunny  precipice  ; 
and  who,  secure  in  their  elevation,  seemed  to  look  down  and 
scoff  at  the  poor  man's  perplexities.  What  was  to  be  done? 
The  morning  was  passing  away,  and  Rip  felt  famished  for  want 
of  his  breakfast.  He  grieved  to  give  up  his  dog  and  gun ;  he 
dreaded  to  meet  his  wife  ;  but  it  would  not  do  to  starve  among 
the  mountains.  He  shook  his  head,  shouldered  the  rusty  fire- 
lock, and  with  a  heart  full  of  trouble  and  anxiety,  turned  his 
steps  homeward. 

As  he  approached  the  village,  he  met  a  number  of  people, 
but  none  whom  he  knew,  which  somewhat  surprised  him,  for  he 
had  thought  himself  acquainted  with  every  one  in  the  country 
round.  Their  dress,  too,  was  of  a  dififerent  fashion  from  that 
to  which  he  was  accustomed.  They  all  stared  at  him  with  equal 
marks  of  surprise,  and  whenever  they  cast  their  eyes  upon  him, 
invariably  stroked  their  chins.  The  constant  recurrence  of  this 
gesture,  induced  Rip,  involuntarily,  to  do  the  same,  when,  to 
his  astonishment,  he  found  his  beard  had  grown  a  foot  long  1 

He  had  now  entered  the  skirts  of  the  village.  A  troop  of 
strange  children  ran  at  his  heels,  hooting  after  him,  and  point- 
ing at  his  gray  beard.  The  dogs,  too,  not  one  of  which  he 
recognized  for  an  old  acquaintance,  barked  at  him  as  he  passed. 
The  very  village  was  altered :  it  was  larger  and  more  populous. 
There  were  rows  of  houses  which  he  had  never  seen  before, 
and  those  which  had  been  his  familiar  haunts  had  disappeared. 
Strange  names  were  over  the  doors  —  strange  faces  at  the  win- 
dows—  every  thing  was  strange.  His  mind  now  misgave  him  ; 
he  began  to  doubt  whether  both  he  and  the  world  around  him 
were  not  bewitched.  Surely  this  was  his  native  village,  which 
he  had  left  but  the  day  before.  There  stood  the  Kaatskill  moun- 
tains—  there  ran  the  silver  Hudson  at  a  distance  —  there  was 


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33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WIBSTIR.N.Y.  14980 

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THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


jely  as  it  had  always  l>cen  —  Rip  was 


every  hill  and  dale  precise 

sorely  perplexed  —  ''  That  flagon  last  night,"  thought  he,  "  has 

addled  my  poor  head  sadly  !  " 

It  was  with  some  difficulty  that  he  found  the  way  to  his  own 
house,  which  he  approached  with  silent  awe,  expecting  every 
moment  to  hear  the  shrill  voice  of  Dame  Van  Winkle.  Ho 
found  the  house  gone  to  decay  —  the  roof  fallen  in,  the  windows 
shattered,  and  the  dcors  off  the  hinges.  A  lialf-starved  dojr. 
that  looked  like  'Wolf,  was  skulking  about  it.  Hip  called  him 
by  name,  but  the  cur  snarled,  showed  his  teeth,  and  passed  ou. 
This  was  an  unkind  cut  indeed.  —  "My  very  dog,"  sighed  poor 
Rip,  "  has  forgotten  me  !  " 

He  entered  the  house,  which,  to  tell  the  truth.  Dame  Van 
Winkle  had  always  kept  in  neat  order.  It  was  empty,  forlorn, 
and  apparently  abandoned.  This  desolateness  overcame  all  hia 
connubial  fears  —  he  called  loudly  for  his  wife  and  children  — 
the  lonely  chambers  rang  for  a  moment  with  his  voice,  and  then 
all  again  was  silence. 

He  now  hurried  forth,  and  hastened  to  his  old  resort,  the  vil- 
lage inn  —  but  it  too  was  gone.  A  large  rickety  wooden  builds 
ing  stood  in  its  place,  with  great  gaping  windows,  some  of  them 
broken,  and  mended  with  old  hats  and  petticoats,  and  over  the 
door  was  painted,  "  The  Union  Hotel,  by  Jonathan  Doolittle." 
Instead  of  tlie  great  tree  that  used  to  shelter  the  quiet  little 
Dutch  inn  of  yore,  there  now  was  reared  a  tall  naked  pole,  with 
something  on  the  top  that  looked  like  a  red  night-cap,  and  from 
it  was  fluttering  a  flag,  on  which  was  a  singular  assemblage  of 
stars  and  stripes  —  all  this  was  strange  and  incomprehensible. 
He  recognized  on  the  sign,  however,  the  ruby  face  of  King 
George,  under  which  he  had  smokec'  so  many  a  peaceful  pipe, 
but  even  this  was  singularly  metamorphosed.  Tiie  red  coat 
was  changed  for  one  of  blue  and  buff,  k  sword  was  held  in  the 
hand  instead  of  a  sceptre,  the  head  was  decorated  witli  a  cocked 
hat,  and  underneath  was  painted  in  large  characters.  General 
Washington. 

There  was,  as  usual,  a  crowd  of  folk  about  the  door,  but 
none  that  Rip  recollected.  The  very  character  of  the  people 
seemed  changed.  There  was  a  busy,  bustling,  disputatious 
tone  about  it,  instead  of  the  accustomed  phlegm  and  drowsy 
tranquillity.  He  looked  in  vain  for  the  sage  Nicholas  Veddei, 
with  his  broad  face,  double  chin,  aiid  fair  long  pipe,  uttering 
clouds  of  tobacco  smoke,  iiistoMd  of  hUe  speeches ;  or  Van 
Bummel,  the  schoolmaster,  doling  forth  the  contents  of  an 
ancient  uewsoaner.     In  ulace  of  these,  a  lean  bilious-looking 


tellow,  wilh  "i 
nieutly  about 
gross  —  liluTt 
other  words  m 
wildered  Van 

Tlie  appea 
rusty  fowling 
;ui(l  children 
t.ivern  politic 
lu'iul  to  foot. 
him,  and  dra 
bo  voted?" 
but  bury  littl 
tiptoe,  inquin 
onit."  Kip  V 
whon  a  kiio 
cocked  hat,  i 
tx)  the  right  a 
mg  himself  1 
other  resting 
iiig,  as  it  wer 
"  what  brong 
and  a  mob  at 
Lhe  village?" 

"Alas!  g( 
a  poor,  quiet 
the  King,  Go 

Here  a  gen 
a  tory  !  a  spj 

It  was  wit 
the  cocked  hs 
austerity  of 
what  he  cauK 
mail  humbly 
came  tliere  ir 
about  the  tav 

"Well  — V 

Rip  bethoi 
Nicholas  Ved 

There  was 
plied,  in  a  tl 
dead  and  g( 
tomb-stone  ii 
but  that's  rol 


/ 


RIP   VAN   WTNKLt!. 


87 


tellow,  v/illi  iris  pockets  full  of  hamlltills,  wns  haranuninj;  volio- 
ineutly  uboiit  ligiits  of  citizens  —  election  —  members  of  Con- 
gress —  liberty  —  Hunker's  hill  —  heroes  of  seventy-six  —  juul 
other  words  which  were  a  perfect  Babylonish  jargon  to  the  be- 
wildered Van  Winkle. 

The  appearance  of  Rip,  with  his  long,  grizzled  beard,  his 
rusty  fowling-piece,  his  uncouth  dress,  and  an  army  of  women 
and  children  at  his  heels,  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
(Mvern  politicians.  They  crowded  round  him,  eying  him  from 
lii'iid  to  foot,  with  great  curiosity.  The  orator  bustled  up  to 
him,  and  drawing  him  partly  aside,  inquired,  "on  which  side 
he  voted?"  Rip  stared  in  vacant  stupidity.  Another  short 
but  bury  little  fellow  pulled  him  by  the  arm,  and  rising  on 
tiptoe,  inquired  in  his  ear,  "  whether  he  was  Federal  or  Demo- 
crit."  Kip  was  eipially  at  a  loss  to  coniprehend  the  question; 
when  a  knowing,  self-important  old  gentleman,  in  a  sharp 
cocked  hat,  made  his  way  through  tlie  crowd,  jjutting  them 
to  the  right  and  left  with  bis  elljows  :i;i  lie  passed,  and  i)lant- 
mg  himself  before  Van  Winkle,  with  one  arm  a-kimbo,  the 
other  resting  on  bis  cane,  his  keen  eyes  and  sharp  hat  penetrat- 
ing, as  it  wen\  into  bis  v(>rv  soul,  demandi'd  in  an  austere  tone, 
"  what  brought  him  to  the  election  with  a  gun  on  bis  shoulder, 
and  a  mob  at  his  heels,  and  whether  he  meant  to  breed  a  riot  in 
Ihe  village?" 

''  Alas  !  gentlemen,"  cried  Rip,  somewhat  dismayed,  "  I  am 
a  poor,  quiet  man,  a  native  of  the  place,  and  a  loyal  subject  of 
the  King,  Got!  bless  him  !  " 

Here  a  general  shout  burst  from  the  bystanders — "  a  tory ! 
a  tory  !  a  spy  !  a  refugee  !  hustle  him  !  away  with  him  !  " 

It  was  witli  great  dilliculty  that  the  self-important  man  in 
tlie  cociked  hat  restored  order ;  and  having  assumed  a  tenfold 
austerity  of  brow,  demanded  again  of  the  unknown  culprit, 
wliat  he  came  there  for,  and  whom  he  was  seeking.  The  })oor 
man  humbly  assured  him  that  he  meant  no  harm,  but  merely 
'•anie  there  in  search  of  some  of  his  neighbors,  who  used  to  keep 
about  the  tavern. 

"  Well  —  who  are  they?  —  name  them." 

Rip  bethought  himself  a  moment,  and  inquired,  "  Where's 
Nicholas  Vedder?" 

There  was  a  silence  for  a  little  while,  when  an  old  man  re- 
plied, in  a  thin,  piping  voice,  "  Nicholas  Vedder?  why,  he  is 
dead  and  gone  these  eighteen  years !  There  was  a  wooden 
tombstone  in  the  church-yard  that  used  to  tell  all  about  him, 
but  that's  rotten  and  gone  too." 


i 

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88 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


"  Where's  Brom  Dutcher?  " 

"  Oh,  he  went  off  to  the  army  in  the  beginning  of  the  war; 
some  say  he  was  killed  at  the  storming  of  Stony-Point  —  others 
say  he  was  drowned  in  the  squall,  at  the  foot  of  Antony's 
Nose.  I  don't  know  —  he  never  came  back  again, ' ' 
"Where's  Van  Bummel,  the  schoolmaster?" 
"  He  went  off  to  the  wars,  too ;  was  a  great  militia  general, 
and  is  now  in  Congress.' 

Rip's  heart  died  away,  at  hearing  if  these  sad  changes  in  his 
home  and  friends,  and  finding  himseif  thus  alone  in  the  world. 
Every  answer  puzzled  him,  too,  by  treating  of  such  enormous 
lapses  of  time,  and  of  matters  which  he  could  not  understand : 
war  —  Congress  —  Stony-Point !  —  he  had  no  courage  to  ask 
after  any  more  friends,  but  cried  out  in  despair,  "  Does  nobody 
here  know  Rip  Van  Winkle?  " 

"  Oh,  Rip  Van  Winkle  !  "  exclaimed  two  or  three.  "  Oh  to 
be  sure!  that's  Rip  Van  Winkle  yonder,  leaning  against  the 
tree." 

Rip  looked,  and  beheld  a  precise  counterpart  of  himself  as  he 
»vent  up  the  mountain  ;  apparently  as  lazy  and  certainly  as 
ragged.  The  poor  fellow  was  now  completely  confounded. 
He  doubted  his  own  identity,  and  whether  he  was  himself  or 
another  man.  In  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment,  the  man  in 
the  cocked  hat  demanded  who  he  was,  and  what  was  his  name? 

"God  knows,"  exclaimed  he  at  his  wit's  end;  "I'm  not 
myself  —  I'm  somebody  else  —  that's  me  yonder  —  no  —  that's 
tomebody  else,  got  into  ray  shoes  —  I  was  myself  last  night, 
but  I  fell  asleep  on  the  mountain,  and  they've  changed  my  gun, 
and  every  thing's  changed,  and  I'm  changed,  and  I  can't  tell 
tvhat's  my  name,  or  who  I  am !  " 

The  by-standers  began  now  to  look  at  each  other,  nod,  wink 
significantly,  and  tap  their  fingers  against  their  foreheads. 
There  was  a  whisper,  also,  about  securing  the  gun,  and  keep- 
ing the  old  fellow  from  doing  mischief;  at  the  very  suggestioi; 
of  which,  the  self-important  man  with  the  cocked  hat  retired 
with  some  precipitation.  At  tliis  critical  moment  a  fresK 
comely  woman  pressed  through  the  throng  to  get  a  peep  at  tlu 
gray-bearded  man.  She  had  a  chubby  child  in  her  arms, 
which,  frightened  at  his  looks,  licgan  to  cry,  "  Hush,  Rii)," 
cried  she,  "  hush,  you  little  fool ;  tlie  old  man  won't  hurt  you.  ' 
The  name  of  the  child,  the  air  of  the  mother,  the  tone  of  her 
voice,  all  awakened  a  train  of  recollections  in  his  mind. 

"  What  is  your  name,  my  good  woman  '  "  disked  be. 

"Judith  Gardenier." 


«'  And  your 

"Ah,  poor  ti 
years  since  he 
has  been  heart 
wliclhcr  he  sh 
iioliody  can  tel 

Uip'had  i)ut 
faltering  voice 

"  W lure's  } 

Oh.  she  toe 
blood-vessel  ir 

Tliere  was  j 
Tlic  honest  mi 
his  (laughter  a 
died   he  —  " 
Winkle  now  !  - 

All  stood  a 
among  the  cro 
it  ill  his  face 
Hij)  Van  Win 
neighbor  —  W 
years?" 

Kip's  story 
been  to  him 
Uiey  heard  it ; 
their  tongues 
the  cocked  lir 
liie  field,  sen 
liis  head  —  up 
throughout  th 

It  was  detc; 
V'auderdonk, 
was  a  descent 
of  the  f'arlies 
ancient  inhali 
wonderful   ev 
'•eeoUccted  Ri 
Batistaetory  i 
fact,  handed 
Kaatskill  moi 
jugs.     That 
the  lirst  disc' 
vigil  there  ev 
heiug  peniiitt 


BIP  VAN   WINKLE. 


39 


^«  And  your  father's  name?  " 

"  All,  poor  man,  Rip  Van  Winkle  was  his  name ;  but  it's  twenty 
years  since  he  went  away  from  home  with  his  gun,  and  never 
has  been  heard  of  since  —  his  dog  came  home  without  him  ;  but 
wlictlier  he  shot  himself,  or  was  carried  away  by  the  Indians, 
iioliody  <'a"  toll.     I  was  then  but  a  little  girl." 

Hip  had  but  one  question  more  to  ask;  but  he  put  it  with  a 
faltering  voice : 

'•  Whi're's  your  mother?  " 

Oh.  shv.  too  had  died  but  a  short  time  since :  she  broke  a 
blood-vessel  in  a  lit  of  passion  at  a  New-Kngland  pedler. 

Tliere  was  a  drop  of  comfort,  at  least,  iu  this  intelligence. 
The  honest  man  could  contain  himself  no  longer.  He  caught 
his  daughter  and  her  child  in  his  arms.  "  I  am  your  father !  " 
cried  he  —  "Young  Rip  Van  Winkle  once  —  old  Rip  Van 
Winivle  now  !  —  Does  nobody  know  poor  Rip  Van  Winkle?" 

All  stooil  amazed,  until  an  old  woman,  tottering  out  from 
among  the  crowd,  put  her  hand  to  her  brow,  and  peering  under 
it  in  his  f.ace  for  a  moment,  exclaimed,  "Sure  enough!  it  is 
Hip  Van  Winkle — it  is  himself.  Welcome  home  again,  old 
neighbor  —  Why,  where  have  you  been  these  twenty  long 
years?" 

Hip's  story  was  soon  told,  for  the  whole  twenty  years  had 
Ir'ou  to  him  but  as  one  nigiit.  The  neighbors  stared  when 
they  heard  it;  some  were  seen  to  wink  at  each  other,  and  put 
their  tongues  in  their  cheeks ;  and  the  self-important  man  in 
the  cocked  lirt,  who,  when  the  alarm  was  over,  had  returned  to 
the  field,  screwed  down  the  corners  of  his  mouth,  and  shook 
his  head  —  upon  which  there  was  a  general  shaking  of  the  head 
throughout  the  assemblage. 

It  was  determined,  however,  to  take  the  opinion  of  old  Peter 
Vauderdonk,  who  was  seen  slowly  advancing  up  the  road.  He 
was  a  descendant  of  the  historian  of  that  name,  who  wrote  one 
of  tiie  "arliest  accounts  of  the  province.  Peter  was  the  most 
aiu'iinl  inhabitant  of  tiie  village,  and  well  versed  in  all  the 
wonderful  events  and  traditions  of  the  neighborhood.  He 
'•c'coUectcd  Rip  at  once,  and  corroborated  his  story  in  the  most 
isatistactory  manner.  He  assured  the  company  that  it  was  a 
fact,  handed  down  from  his  ancestor  the  historian,  that  the 
Kaatskill  mountains  liad  always  been  haunted  by  strange  be- 
ings. That  it  was  anirnied  that  tlie  great  Hendrick  Hudson, 
the  first  discoverer  of  the  river  and  country,  kept  a  kind  of 
vigil  there  every  twenty  years,  with  his  crew  of  the  Half-moon, 
being  permitted  in  this  way  to  revisit  the  scenes  of  his  enteX" 


i  I 


IM 


miV 


s 


m 


40 


THE    SKETC IT-BOOK. 


I  .* 


prise,  aud  keep  a  guardian  eye  upon  tlie  river  and  the  great 
city  called  by  his  name.  That  his  father  had  once  seen  them 
in  their  old  Dutch  dresses  playing  at  nine-pins  in  a  hollow  of 
the  mountain;  and  tuat  he  himself  had  heard,  one  summer 
afternoon,  the  sound  of  their  balls,  like  distant  peals  of 
thunder. 

To  make  a  long  story  short,  the  company  broke  up,  and 
returned  to  the  more  important  concerns  of  the  election.  Rip's 
daughter  took  him  home  to  live  with  her;  she  had  a  snug,  well- 
furnished  house,  and  a  stout  cheery  fanner  for  a  husband, 
whom  Rip  recollected  for  one  of  the  urchins  that  used  to  climb 
upon  his  back.  As  to  Rip's  son  and  heir,  who  was  the  ditto  of 
himself,  seen  leaning  against  the  tree,  he  was  employed  to 
work  on  the  farm,  but  evinced  an  hereditary  disposition  to  at- 
tend to  any  thing  else  but  his  business. 

Rip  now  resumed  his  old  walks  and  habits ;  he  soon  found 
many  of  his  former  cronies,  though  all  rather  the  worse  for  the 
wear  aud  tear  of  time;  and  preferred  making  friends  among 
the  rising  generation,  with  whom  he  soon  grew  into  great  favor. 
Having  nothing  to  do  at  home,  and  being  arrived  at  that 
happy  age  when  a  man  can  be  idle  with  impunity,  he  took 
his  place  once  more  on  the  bench,  at  the  inn  door,  aud  was 
reverenced  as  one  of  the  patriarchs  of  the  village,  and  a  chron- 
icle of  the  (1  times  "before  the  war."  It  was  some  limo 
before  he  coaid  get  into  the  regular  track  of  gossip,  or  could 
be  made  to  comprehend  the  strange  events  that  had  taken  place 
during  his  torpor.  How  that  tliere  had  been  a  revolutionary 
war  —  that  the  country  had  thrown  off  the  yoke  of  old  England 
—  and  that,  instead  of  being  a  subject  of  his  majesty  George 
the  TL'rd,  he  was  now  a  free  citizen  of  tlie  United  States.  Rip, 
in  fact,  was  no  politician ;  the  changes  of  states  and  empires 
made  but  little  impression  on  him  ;  but  there  wns  one  species 
of  despotism  under  which  he  had  long  groaned,  aud  that  was  — 
petticoat  government.  Happily,  that  was  at  an  end  ;  he  had 
got  his  neck  out  of  the  yoke  of  matrimony,  and  could  go  in  aud 
out  whenever  he  pleased,  without  dreading  the  tyranny  of  Dame 
Van  Winkle.  Whenever  her  name  was  mentioned,  however,  ho 
shook  his  head,  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  cast  up  his  eyes  ; 
which  might  pass  eitlier  for  an  expression  of  resignation  to  his 
fate,  or  joy  at  his  deliverance. 

He  used  to  tell  his  story  to  every  stranger  that  arrived  at  IMr. 
Doolittle's  hotel.  He  was  observed,  at  first,  to  vary  on  some 
pr' its  every  time  he  told  it,  which  was  doubtless  owing  to  his 
having  so  recently  awaked.     It  at  last  settled  down  precisely 


ENGLISH    WRITERS   ON  AMERICA. 


41 


to  the  tnic  I  have  related,  and  not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  in 
the  n('itrlil)orliood,  but  knew  \t  by  heart.  Some  always  pre- 
tciuled  to  (loiibt  the  reality  of  it,  and  insisted  that  Rip  had  been 
out  of  his  Ik'juI,  and  that  this  was  one  point  on  which  he  always 
remained  flighty.  The  old  Dutch  inhabitants,  however,  almost 
universally  gave  it  full  credit.  Even  to  this  day,  they  never 
hear  a  thuMdcr-storni  of  a  summer  afternoon  about  the  Kaats- 
kill,  but  they  say  Ilendriek  Hudson  and  his  crew  are  at  their 
game  of  nine-pins :  and  it  is  a  common  wish  of  all  henpecked 
liiishands  in  tiie  neighborhood,  when  life  hangs  heavy  on  their 
hiuidrf,  that  they  might  have  a  quieting  draught  out  of  Rip  Van 
Winkle's  llagou. 

Not K.  — The  foregoing  talc,  one  wonlrt  sunpect,  had  been  anggCRted  to  Mr.  Knlcker* 
bockor  by  a  little  Oermaii  fniporstition  about  the  Emperor  Frederick  der  Rothbart  and 
tlie  Kypphallscr  mountain;  the  giibjoiiicd  note,  however,  which  he  had  appended  to  the 
talc,  eliowH  thnt  it  is  an  abHolutc  fact,  nai  riitod  with  hlH  uhubI  fldciity. 

"The  Hiory  of  Ki|>  Van  Winkle  may  Houin  incredible  to  many,  but  nevertheless  I 
give  ii  my  full  belief,  for  I  know  the  vicinity  of  our  old  Dutch  setllements  to  have  been 
very  Kulijccl  to  nukrvcllouH  events  and  appearances.  Indeed,  I  have  heard  many  stranger 
RliirirH  than  this,  In  the  villages  along  the  Hudson,  all  of  which  were  too  well  authenti- 
cated to  iidnilt  of  a  doubt.  I  have  even  talked  with  Kip  Van  Winkle  myself,  who,  wbea 
jaxt  1  xaw  him,  was  a  very  venerable  old  man,  and  so  perfectly  rational  and  consistent  on 
every  nth  t  point,  that  I  think  no  coiiMciontious  |)erson  could  refuse  to  take  th's  into  the 
liiiriraiii;  nay,  1  have  seen  a  certificate  on  the  subject  taken  before  a  country  juRtlce,  and 
t{<.'iM  il  with  a  cruHs,  in  the  Justice's  own  handwriting.  The  story,  therefore,  is  beyond 
the  puHtiibiiity  of  doubt. ^ 


ExNuU.-Mi    Uiaii-.ite   O.S    AMEUIUA. 


'    *Methlnk8l8eeln  my  mind  aiuililo  nnd  pulsnnnt  nation,  ronnlnghermlf  liko  n  etforiR 
man  after  sleep,  and  shaUing  her  invincible  locks;  mcthinks  I  see  her  as  an  eagle,  mew- 

v.>:  her  mi(,'lily  youth,  mul  kindling  (i.  r  cndazzlud  cyin  ul  tlii;  full  mid-day  btain.'  — 
Ul'LTOfi   ON   TIIE    l-iniilirv    «V  TIIK   I'UKSS. 

Ir  is  Willi  fiH'rni«is  (if  deep  regret  that  T  observe  the  literary 
miinosity  daily  liiowing  u})  between  England  and  America, 
(irt'ut  curiosity  lias  lu'i-n  awakened  of  late  with  respect  to  the 
I'liilfil  States'.  :iii(l  the  London  press  has  teemed  with  volumes 
of  travels  tliro'inli  the  Repultlic  ;  but  they  seem  intended  to 
dilTuse  error  rutlier  than  knowledge  ;  and  so  successful  have 
lliev  been,  that,  noLwillistaiidiiig  the  constant  intercourse  be- 
tween the  natiims,  then;  is  no  people  concerning  whom  the 
!j;reat  mass  of  the  British  pulilii;  have  less  pure  information,  oi 

entertain  more  uumcioub  prejudices. 

.^ . —  ^  II  ■ 

1  AuPeudix.  Nota  < 


t 


r 

'1 

1 

•  1 

I 

i 


If 


i 


t  i 


42 


TffJ   SKETCH-BOOK. 


English  travellers  are  the  beat  and  the  worst  in  the  world. 
Where  no  motives  of  pride  or  interest  intervene,  none  can  equal 
them  for  profound  and  philosophical  views  of  society,  or  faith- 
ful and  graphical  descriptions  of  external  objects ;  but  when 
either  the  interest  or  reputation  of  their  own  country  comes  in 
collision  with  that  of  another,  they  go  to  the  opposite  extreme, 
and  forget  their  usual  probity  and  candor,  in  the  indulgence  of 
splenetic  remark,  and  an  illiberal  spirit  of  ridicule. 

Hence,  their  travels  are  more  honest  and  accurate,  the  more 
remote  the  country  described.  I  would  place  implicit  confi- 
dence  in  an  Englishman's  description  of  the  regions  beyond  the 
cataracts  of  the  Nile ;  of  unknown  islands  in  the  Yellow  Sea ; 
of  th^  interior  of  India ;  or  of  any  other  tract  which  other  trav- 
elle'  <  ight  be  apt  to  picture  out  with  the  illusions  of  their 
fa^K'io'-.  But  I  would  cautiously  receive  his  account  of  his 
immediate  neighbors,  and  of  those  nations  with  which  he  is 
in  habits  of  most  frequent  intercourse.  However  I  might  be 
disposed  to  trust  his  probity,  I  dare  not  trust  his  prejudices. 

It  has  also  been  the  peculiar  lot  of  our  country  to  be  visited 
by  the  worst  kind  of  English  travellers.  While  men  of  philo- 
sophical spirit  and  cultivated  minds  have  been  sent  from  Eng- 
land to  ransack  the  poles,  to  penetrate  the  deserts,  and  to  study 
the  manners  and  customs  of  barbarous  nations,  with  which  she 
can  have  no  permanent  intercourse  of  profit  or  pleasure ;  it  has 
been  left  to  the  broken-down  tradesman,  the  scheming  adven- 
turer, the  wandering  mechanic,  the  Manchester  and  Birming- 
ham agent,  to  be  her  oracles  respecting  America.  From  such 
sources  she  is  content  to  receive  her  information  respecting  a 
country  in  a  singular  state  of  moral  and  physical  development ; 
a  country  in  which  one  of  the  greatest  political  experiments  in 
the  history  of  the  world  is  now  performing,  and  which  presents 
the  most  profound  and  momentous  studies  to  the  statesman 
and  the  ph^'osopher. 

That  such  men  should  give  prejudicial  accounts  of  America  is 
not  a  matter  of  surprise.  The  themes  it  offers  for  contempla- 
tion are  too  vast  and  elevated  for  their  capacities.  The  national 
character  is  yet  in  a  state  of  fermentation :  it  may  have  its  froth- 
inesB  and  sediment,  but  its  ingredients  are  sound  and  whole- 
some :  it  has  already  given  proofs  of  powerful  and  generous 
qualities ;  and  the  whole  promises  to  settle  down  into  something 
substantially  excellent.  But  the  causes  which  a'-e  operating  to 
strengthen  and  ennoble  it,  and  its  daily  indications  of  admirable 
properties,  are  all  lost  upon  these  purblind  observers ;  who  are 
only  affected  by  the  little  asperities  incident  to  its  present  sit- 


nation.  Thej 
things;  of  th 
vate  interests 
the  snug  con^ 
old,  highly-fin 
the  ranks  of  u 
and  servile  su 
tite  and  self-i 
all-important 
do  not  percei 
than  counterb 
hlessingr. 

They  may, 
sonable  expcc 
America  to  tl 
abounded,  an 
they  were  to  1 
foreseen  but 
indulges  absu 
ment.     Such 
finding  that  i 
he  can  reap ; 
contend  with 
ncss  of  an  in 
Perhaps,  tl 
the  prompt  d 
prevalent  am 
with  unwonfc 
tomed  all  th( 
of  good  soci( 
ity,  they  becc 
attribute  to 
underrate  a 
and  where  1: 
rise  to  consc( 
One  would 
such  sources 
be  received  \ 
motives  of 
quiry  and  obi 
would  be  rij 
mitted,  in  su 
very  reverse 
instance  of 


ENGLISH  WRITERS  ON  AMERICA. 


48 


nation.  They  are  capable  of  judging  only  of  the  surface  of 
things ;  of  those  matters  which  come  in  contact  with  their  pri- 
vate interests  and  personal  gratifications.  They  miss  some  of 
the  snug  conveniences  and  petty  comforts  which  belong  to  an 
old,  highly-finished,  and  over-populous  state  of  society  ;  where 
the  ranks  of  useful  labor  are  crowded,  and  many  earn  a  painful 
and  servile  subsistence,  by  studying  the  very  caprices  of  appe- 
tite and  self-indulgenco.  Those  minor  comforts,  however,  are 
all-important  in  the  estimation  of  narrow  minds ;  which  either 
do  not  perceive,  or  will  not  acknowledge,  that  they  are  more 
than  counterbalanced  among  us,  by  great  and  generally  diffused 
hlessingr. 

They  may,  perhaps,  have  been  disappointed  in  some  unrea- 
sonable expectation  of  sudden  gain.  They  may  have  pictured 
America  to  themselves  an  El  Dorado,  where  gold  and  silver 
abounded,  and  the  natives  were  lacking  in  sagacity ;  and  where 
they  were  to  become  strangely  and  suddenly  rich,  in  some  un- 
foreseen but  easy  manner.  The  same  weakness  of  mind  that 
indulges  absurd  expectations,  produces  petulance  in  disappoint- 
ment. Such  persons  become  embittered  against  the  country  on 
finding  that  there,  as  everywhere  else,  a  man  must  sow  before 
he  can  reap ;  must  win  wealth  by  industry  and  talent ;  and  must 
contend  with  the  common  difficulties  of  nature,  and  the  shrewd- 
ness of  an  intelligent  and  enterprising  people. 

Perhaps,  through  mistaken  or  ill-directed  hospitality,  or  from 
the  prompt  disposition  to  cheer  and  countenance  the  stranger, 
prevalent  among  my  countrymen,  they  may  have  been  treated 
with  unwonted  respect  in  America;  and,  having  been  accus- 
tomed all  their  lives  to  consider  themselves  below  the  surface 
of  good  society,  and  brought  up  in  a  servile  feeling  of  inferior- 
ity, they  become  arrogant  on  the  common  boon  of  civility  ;  they 
attribute  to  the  lowliness  of  others  their  own  elevation  ;  and 
underrate  a  society  where  there  are  no  artificial  distinctions, 
and  where  by  any  chance  such  individuals  as  themselves  can 
rise  to  consequence. 

One  would  suppose,  however,  that  information  coming  from 
such  sources,  on  a  subject  where  the  truth  is  so  desirable,  would 
be  received  with  caution  by  the  censors  of  the  press ;  that  the 
motives  of  these  men,  their  veracity,  their  opportunities  of  in- 
quiry and  observation,  and  their  capacities  for  judging  correctl}', 
would  be  rigorously  scrutinized,  before  their  evidence  was  ad- 
mitted, in  such  sweeping  extent  against  a  kindred  nation.  The 
very  reverse,  however,  is  the  case,  and  it  furnishes  a  striking 
instance  of  human  inconsistency.      Nothing  can  surpass  the 


iii. 


)  I. 


I'H 


44 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK, 


''> 


i     it    ^!- 


vigilance  with  which  English  critics  will  examine  the  credibility 
of  the  traveller  who  publishes  an  account  of  some  distant,  and 
comparatively  unimportant,  country.  How  warily  will  they 
compare  the  measurements  of  a  pyramid,  or  the  description  of 
a  ruin ;  and  how  sternly  will  they  censure  any  inaccuracy  in 
these  contributions  of  merely  curious  knowledge ;  while  they 
will  receive,  with  eagerness  and  unhesitating  faith,  the  gross 
misrepresentations  of  coarse  and  obscure  writers,  concerning  a 
country  with  which  their  own  is  placed  In  the  most  important 
and  delicate  relations.  Nay,  they  will  even  make  these  ajwcry. 
phal  volumes  text-books,  on  which  to  enlarge,  with  a  zeal  and 
an  ability  worthy  of  a  more  generous  cause. 

I  shall  not,  however,  dwell  on  this  irksome  and  hackneyed 
topic ;  nor  should  I  have  adverted  to  it,  but  for  the  undue  in- 
terest apparently  taken  in  it  by  my  countrymen,  and  certain 
injurious  effects  which  I  apprehend  it  might  produce  upon  the 
national  feeling.  We  attach  too  much  consequence  to  these 
attacks.  They  cannot  do  us  any  essential  injury.  The  tissue 
of  misrepresentations  attempted  to  be  woven  round  us,  are  like 
cobwebs  woven  round  the  limbs  of  an  infant  giant.  Our  coun- 
try continually  outgrows  them.  One  falsehood  after  another 
falls  off  of  itself.  We  have  but  to  live  on,  and  every  day  we 
live  a  whole  volume  of  refutation.  All  the  writers  of  England 
united,  if  we  could  for  a  moment  suppose  their  great  minds 
stooping  to  so  unworthy  a  combination,  could  not  conceal  our 
rapidly  growing  importance  and  matchless  prosperity.  They 
could  not  conceal  that  these  are  owing,  not  merely  to  physical 
and  local,  but  also  to  moral  causes ;  —  to  the  political  liberty, 
the  general  diffusion  of  knowledge,  the  prevalence  of  sound, 
moral,  and  religious  principles,  which  give  force  and  sustained 
energy  to  the  character  of  a  people ;  and  which,  in  fact,  have 
been  the  acknowledged  and  wonderful  supporters  of  their  own 
national  power  and  glory. 

But  why  are  we  so  exquisitely  alive  to  the  aspersions  of 
England  ?  Why  do  we  suffer  ourselves  to  be  so  affected  by  the 
contumely  she  has  endeavored  to  cast  upon  us?  It  is  not  in 
the  opinion  of  England  alone  that  honor  lives,  and  reputation 
has  its  being.  The  world  at  huge  is  the  arbiter  of  a  nation's 
fame :  with  its  thousand  eyes  it  witnesses  a  nation's  deeds,  and 
from  their  collective  testimony  is  national  glory  or  national 
disgrace  established. 

For  ourselves,  therefore,  it  is  comparatively  of  but  little 
importance  whether  England  does  us  justice  or  not ;  it  is,  pei- 
baps,  of  far  more  importance  to  herself.    She  is  instilling  anger 


originate  in  tl 


iNQLISE   WRITERS  ON  AMERICA. 


45 


>ility 
and 
they 
n  of 

■y  in 
hey 

?r088 

ng  a 


our 


4 


and  resentment  into  the  bosom  of  a  youthful  nation,  to  grow 
with  its  growtli,  and  strengthen  with  its  strength.  If  in  Amer- 
ica, as  some  of  her  writers  are  laboring  to  oonvince  hgr,  she  is 
hcrctvfter  to  find  an  invidious  rival  and  a  gigantic  foe,  she  may 
tliank  those  very  writers  for  having  provoked  rivalship,  and  irri- 
tated hostility.  Every  one  knows  the  all-pervading  influence 
of  literature  at  the  present  day,  and  how  much  the  opinions  and 
passions  of  mankind  are  under  its  control.  The  mere  contests 
of  the  sword  are  temporary  ;  their  wounds  are  but  in  the  flesh, 
and  it  is  the  pride  of  the  generous  to  forgive  and  forget  them  ; 
but  the  slanders  of  the  pen  pierce  to  the  heart;  they  rankle 
longest  in  the  noblest  spirits ;  they  dwell  ever  present  in  the 
mind,  and  render  it  morbidly  sensitive  to  the  most  trifling  collis- 
ion. It  is  but  seldom  that  any  one  overt  act  produces  hos- 
tilities between  two  nations ;  there  exists,  most  commonly,  a 
previous  jealousy  and  ill-will,  a  predisposition  to  take  ofifence. 
Trace  these  to  their  cause,  and  how  often  will  they  be  found  to 
originate  in  the  mischievous  effusions  of  mercenary  writers ; 
who,  secure  in  their  closets,  and  for  ignominious  bread,  concoct 
and  circulate  the  venom  that  is  to  inflame  the  generous  and  the 
brave. 

I  am  not  laying  too  much  stress  upon  this  point ;  for  it 
applies  most  emphatically  to  our  particular  case.  Over  no 
nation  docs  the  press  hold  a  more  absolute  control  than  over 
the  people  of  America ;  for  the  universal  education  of  the 
poorest  classes  makes  every  individual  a  reader.  There  is 
iiotliing  i)ublished  in  England  on  the  subject  of  our  country, 
tliMt  does  not  circulate  through  every  part  of  it.  There  is  not 
.!  ''iiliiinny  dropt  from  an  fjiglish  pen,  nor  an  unworthy  sarcasm 
ulU'ioiI  by  an  English  statesman,  that  does  not  go  to  l)li<;ht 
yood-will,  and  add  to  the  mass  of  latent  resentment.  Possess- 
Injr  then,  as  England  does,  the  fountain-head  whence  the  litera- 
\\trr  of  tlu'  language  flov/w,  how  coinplotely  is  it  in  her  power, 
rrv'  }'o\v  truly  is  it  her  duty,  to  nia!c(>  it  the  medium  of 
r:,iiil;l'?  and  magnanimous  feeling  —  a  stream  where  the  twc 
r  Uions  might  meet  together,  and  drink  in  peace  and  kindness. 
Should  she,  however,  persist  in  turning  it  to  waters  of  bitterness, 
the  time  may  come  when  she  may  repent  her  folly.  The  pres- 
ont  friendship  of  America  may  be  of  but  little  moment  to  her ; 
hilt  the  future  destinies  of  that  country  do  not  admit  of  a  doubt : 
over  those  of  England,  there  lower  some  shadows  of  nncer- 
tJiiiity.  Should,  then,  a  day  of  gloom  arrive  —  should  these 
lovorsps  overtake  her  from  which  the  proudest  empires  have 
not  been  exempt  —  she  may  look  back  with  regret  at  her  infatu- 


•  i 


i 


4G 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


bcr  side   a   nation  she 


!    I 


iii 


r 


ii 


k 


ation,  in  repulsing  from  bcr  side  a  nation  sue  might  have 
grappled  to  her  bosom,  and  thus  destroying  her  only  cliaiite 
for  real  friendship  beyond  the  bouudariis  of  her  own  dominious, 

There  is  a  general  impression  in  P^nglaud,  that  the  people  of 
the  United  States  are  inimical  to  the  parent  country.  It  ia  one 
of  the  errors  which  have  been  diligently  propagated  by  desiguiii" 
writers.  There  is,  doubtless,  considerable  political  hostility,  and 
a  general  soreness  at  the  illiberalily  of  the  P:ngli8h  press  ;  but, 
<'cnerally  speaking,  the  preposscosions  of  the  people  are 
strongly  in  favor  of  England.  Indeed,  at  one  time  they 
amounted,  in  many  parts  of  the  Union,  to  an  absurd  degree  of 
bigotry.  The  bare  name  of  Engiishuian  was  a  passport  to  the 
confidence  and  liospitality  of  every  f.imily,  and  too  often  gave 
a  transient  currency  to  the  worthless  and  the  ungrateful. 
Throughout  the  country,  there  was  sonuithing  of  enthusijism 
connected  with  the  idea  of  England.  We  looked  to  it  with  a 
hallowed  feeling  of  tenderness  and  veneration,  as  the  land  of 
our  forefathers  —  the  august  repository  of  the  numiimcnts  and 
antiquities  of  our  race  —  the  birth-place  and  mausoleum  of  the 
sages  and  heroes  of  our  paternal  history.  After  our  own  coun- 
try, there  was  none  in  whose  glory  we  more  delighted  —  none 
whose  good  opinion  we  were  more  anxious  to  possess — none 
toward  which  our  hearts  yearned  with  siudi  thio))l)ings  of  warm 
consanguinity.  Even  during  the  late  war,  whenever  there  was 
the  least  opportunity  for  kind  feelings  to  si)riiig  forth,  it  was 
the  delight  of  the  generous  spirits  of  our  country  to  show,  that 
in  the  midst  of  hostilities,  they  still  kept  alive  the  sparks  of 
future  friendship. 

Is  all  this  to  be  at  an  end  ?  Is  this  golden  band  of  kindred 
sympathies,  so  rare  between  nations,  to  be  broken  forever?  — 
Perhaps  it  is  for  the  best  —  it  may  dispel  an  illusion  which 
might  have  kept  us  in  mental  vassalage  ;  which  might  have  in- 
terfered occasionally  with  our  true  interests,  an(l  prevented 
the  growth  of  proper  national  pride.  But  it  is  hard  to  give  up 
the  kindred  tie !  —  and  there  are  feelings  dearer  than  interest  — 
closer  to  the  heart  than  pride  —  that  will  still  make  us  cast  back 
a  look  of  regret  as  we  wander  farther  and  farther  from  tlie 
paternal  roof,  and  lament  the  waywardness  of  the  parent  that 
would  repel  the  afifections  of  the  child. 

Short-sighted  and  injudicious,  however,  as  the  conduct  of 
England  may  be  in  this  system  of  aspersion,  recrimination  on 
our  part  would  be  equally  ill-judged.  I  speak  not  of  a  prompt 
and  spirited  vindication  of  our  country,  nor  the  keenest  castiga- 
tion  of  her  slanderers  —  but  I  allude  to  a  disposition  to  retaliate 


have 

nious. 
pid  of 

\h    (1110 

ij^iiiii- 
y,  and 

l>iit, 
are 

they 
reo  of 
to  the 
save 
itoful. 
8i;isin 
with  a 
lul  of 
8  iind 
if  the 
coun- 
-none 
•  none 
warm 
e  was 
it  was 
,  that 
•ks  of 

ndred 
?r?  — 
which 
vc  in- 
euled 
vc  up 

28t  — 

back 
Q  tiie 
t  that 

ct  of 
n  on 
onipt 
itiga- 
iliatc 


?:^ 


^ 


Ul 

(5 

< 


O 

o 

o 

u 

X 

o 

I- 
< 
X 


!i.. 


■■:i(«1 


i  •• 


XNi 


ill 


I  I 


it 


i  i\> 


y 


f 


in  kind,  to  retoi 
to  be  spreading 
ticuiarly  against 
instead  of  redn 
viting  as  the  rei 
and  unprofitabl 
mind,  fretied  ini 
tion.  If  Englu 
trade,  or  the  rai 
integrity  of  her 
ion,  let  us  bewa 
est  to  diffuse  en 
checking  emigra 
Neitlier  have  we 
as  yet,  in  ell  oui 
the  gaiuiL'5  part 
but  the  gratiliea 
tion ;  and  even 
lished  iu  Englin 
they  foster  a  qu 
they  sour  the  sv\ 
and  brambles  a 
circulate  throui 
effect,  excite  vii 
most  especially  t 
by  public  opiuic 
the  purity  of  tb 
is  knowledge ; 
prejudice,  wilful 

The  members 
candid  and  disf 
the  sovereign  ra 
to  come  to  all  qi 
biassed  judgmei 
with  England,  w 
and  delicate  cha 
tions  that  affect 
in  the  adjusting 
be  determined  I 
attentive  to  puri 

Opening  too, 
portion  of  tlie 
It  sliouhl  be  oi 
least,   destitute 


ENGLISH   WRITERS  ON  AMERICA. 


41 


in  kind,  to  retort  sarcasm  and  inspire  prejudice,  which  seems 
to  be  spreading  widely  among  our  writers.  Let  us  guard  par- 
ticularly against  such  a  temper ;  for  it  would  double  the  evil, 
instead  of  redressing  the  wrong.  Nothing  is  so  easy  and  in- 
viting as  the  retort  of  abuse  and  sarcasm ,  but  it  is  a  paltry 
and  unprofitable  contest.  It  is  the  alternative  of  a  morbid 
mind,  fretved  into  petulance,  rather  than  warmed  into  indigna- 
tion. If  P^ugluud  is  willing  to  permit  the  mean  jealousies  of 
trade,  or  the  rancorous  animosities  of  poliiic-,  to  deprave  the 
integrity  of  her  press,  and  poison  the  fountain  of  public  opin- 
ion, let  us  beware  of  her  example.  She  may  deem  it  her  inter- 
est to  diffuse  error,  and  engender  antijiathj,  for  the  purpose  of 
checking  emigration  ;  we  have  no  puri)ose  of  the  kind  to  serve. 
Neither  have  we  any  spirit  of  national  jealousy  to  gratif}' ;  for 
as  yet,  in  cU  our  rivalships  with  England,  we  are  the  rising  and 
the  gainiL-T  party.  There  can  be  no  end  to  answer,  therefore, 
but  the  gratification  of  resentment  —  a  mere  spirit  of  retalia- 
tion ;  and  even  that  is  impotent.  Our  retorts  are  never  repub- 
lished in  England  ;  they  fall  short,  therefore,  of  their  aim ;  but 
they  foster  a  querulous  and  peevish  temj)cr  among  our  writers ; 
they  sour  the  sweet  flow  of  our  early  literature,  and  sow  thorns 
and  brambles  among  its  blossoms.  What  is  still  worse,  they 
circulate  through  our  own  country,  a"  :^,  as  far  as  they  Lave 
efifect,  excite  virulent  national  prejudices.  This  last  is  the  evil 
most  especially  to  be  deprecated.  Governed,  as  we  are,  entirely 
by  public  opinion,  the  utmost  care  should  be  taken  to  preserve 
the  purity  of  the  public  mind.  Knowledge  is  power,  and  truth 
is  knowledge ;  whoever,  therefore,  knowingly  proi)agates  a 
prejudice,  wilfully  saps  the  foundation  of  his  country's  strength. 

The  members  of  a  republic,  above  all  other  men,  should  be 
candid  and  dispassionate.  They  are,  individually,  i)ortions  of 
the  sovereign  mind  and  sovereign  will,  and  should  be  enabled 
to  come  to  all  questions  of  national  concern  with  calm  and  un- 
biassed judgments.  From  the  peculiar  nature  of  our  relatiouj 
with  England,  we  must  have  more  frequent  (juestions  of  a  difficult 
and  delicate  character  with  her,  than  with  any  other  nation;  ques- 
tions that  affect  the  most  acute  and  excitable  feelings :  and  as, 
in  the  adjusting  of  these,  our  national  measures  must  ultimatoly 
be  determined  by  popuhir  seiitiment.  we  cannot  be  too  anxiously 
attentive  to  purify  it  from  all  latent  passion  or  pre[)os.sessiou. 

Opening  too,  as  we  do,  an  asylum  for  strangi-rs  from  every 
portion  of  the  earth,  we  should  receive  all  with  impartiality. 
It  sliould  be  our  pride  to  exhibit  an  example  of  one  nation,  at 
least,   destitute   of   uational   autipathies,   and   exerciaing,  not 


48 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK. 


i 


!i  il 


merely  the  overt  acts  of  hospitality,  bi.t  those  more  rare  and 
noble  courtesies  which  spring  from  liberality  of  opinion. 

What  have  we  to  Oo  with  national  prejudices?  They  are  the 
inveterate  diseases  of  old  countries,  contracted  in  rude  and 
ignorant  ages,  when  nations  knew  but  little  of  each  other,  and 
looked  beyond  their  own  boundaries  with  distrust  and  hostility. 
"We,  on  the  contrary,  have  sprung  into  natioaal  existence  in  an 
enlightened  and  philosophic  pge,  when  the  different  parts  of  the 
habitable  world,  and  the  various  branches  of  the  human  family. 
have  been  indef atigably  studied  and  made  known  to  each  other ; 
and  we  forego  the  advantages  of  oor  birth,  if  we  do  not  shake 
off  the  national  prejudices,  as  we  would  the  local  superstitions, 
of  the  old  world. 

But  above  all,  let  us  not  be  influenced  by  any  angry  feelings, 
so  far  as  to  shut  our  eyes  to  the  perception  of  what  is  really 
excellent  and  amiable  in  thr;  English  character.  We  are  a 
young  people,  necessarily  an  imitative  one,  and  must  take  our 
examples  and  models.  In  a  great  degree,  from  tl'.c  existing  na- 
tions 6f  Europe.  There  is  no  country  more  worthy  of  our 
study  than  England.  The  spirit  of  her  constitution  is  must 
analogous  to  ours.  The  manners  of  her  people  —  their  intellec- 
tual activity  —  their  freedom  of  opinion  —  their  habits  of  tliiiik- 
mg  on  those  subjects  which  concorn  the  dearest  interests  and 
most  sacred  charities  of  private  life,  are  all  congenial  to  the 
American  character;  and,  in  fact,  are  all  inliinsicall}^  exi'ol- 
lent :  for  it  is  in  the  moral  feeling  of  the  people  that  the  doop 
foundations  of  British  prosperity  rre  laid ;  and  howcvor  tlio 
superstructure  may  be  time-worn,  or  overrun  by  abuses,  there 
must  be  something  solid  in  the  basis,  admirable  in  the  materials, 
und  stable  in  the  structure  of  an  edifice  that  so  long  has  tow- 
ered unshaken  f  midst  the  tempests  of  the  world. 

Let  it  be  the  pride  of  our  writers,  therefore,  discarding  i<,ll 
feelings  of  irritation  and  disdaining  to  retaliate  the  illihcral- 
ity  of  British  authors,  to  speak  of  the  f^nglish  nation  without 
prejudice,  and  with  determined  candor.  While  they  rebuke  the 
indiscriminating  bigotry  wit'.i  which  Sv^me  of  our  countrynion 
admire  and  imitate  every  thing  English,  merely  because  it  is 
English,  let  them  frankly  point  out  wliat  is  really  worthy  of 
approbation.  We  may  thus  place  England  before  us  as  a  per- 
petual volume  of  reference,  wliereiii  are  recorded  sound  deduc- 
tions from  ages  of  experience;  and  wh'n  we  avoid  the  errors 
and  absurdities  which  may  have  crei)t  into  the  page,  we  may 
draw  thence  golden  maxims  of  practical  wisdom,  wherewitli  to 
strengthen  and  to  embelliah  our  national  character. 


i 


» 


The  strange 
lish  character, 
olis.  He  musi 
villages  and  ha 
cottages  ;  he  n 
bedgi'S  and  gre 
attend  wakes 
with  the  peopl 
humors. 

In  some  coi 
fashion  of  the 
and  iutelligent 
entirely  by  boc 
th-i  meti  opolis 
of  the  pol'te  ( 
year  to  a  iiUrr 
this  kind  of  c 
genial  habits  > 
therefore  ditYu 
the  mo.st  retire 
rarks. 

The  Eiiglisl 
ing.  Th.'v  po 
tare,  anc^  a  k( 
the  country, 
inhabitants  of 
and  l)ustling  5 
2vinee  .i  tact  1 
retreat  iU  tlie 
plays  as  niueli 
garden,  and  tl 
of  his  businei 
Even  those  le 
their  lives  in  t 
thing  thut  sha 
tlie  most  chir 
room  window 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND. 


49 


RURAL  LIFE  IN  ENGLAND. 


Oh!  fricDdly  to  the  best  pursuUs  of  man, 
Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue,  and  to  peace, 
Domestic  life  iu  rural  pleasuruH  past!  — Cowper. 

The  stranger  who  would  form  a  correct  opinion  of  the  Eng- 
lish  cbtiiacter,  must  not  confine  his  observations  to  the  metrop- 
olis. He  must  go  forth  into  the  country  ;  he  must  sojourn  ia 
villtiges  and  hamlets  ;  lio  must  visit  castles,  villas,  fa^m-houses, 
cotlagt's ;  he  must  wuiider  thri)ugh  parks  and  gardens ;  along 
hedgi's  and  green  lanes  ;  he  must  loiter  about  country  churches  ; 
attoiul  Wilkes  and  fairs,  and  other  rural  festivals  ;  and  cope 
with  the  people  iu  all  their  conditions,  and  all  their  habits  and 
humors. 

In  some  countries  the  large  cities  absorb  the  wealth  and 
fashion  of  the  nation  ;  they  are  the  only  fixed  abodes  of  elegant 
and  intelligent  society,  and  the  country  is  inhabited  almost 
entirely  by  boorish  peasantry.  In  England,  on  the  contrary, 
th'j  luetiopolis  is  a  mere  gathering  place,  or  genera'  rendezvoua, 
of  the  pobte  classes,  where  they  devote  a  small  portion  of  the 
year  to  a  i.uri'y  of  gayety  and  dissipation,  and  having  indulged 
this  kind  of  carnival,  I'eturn  again  to  the  apparently  more  con- 
genial hn'oits  of  rural  life.  The  various  orders  of  society  are 
theiet'oifi  ditYused  ovi"  the  whole  surface  of  the  kingdom,  and 
the  most  retired  neig'.borhoods  afford  specimens  of  the  different 
rarks. 

The  English,  in  fact,  are  strongly  gifted  with  the  rural  feel- 
hig.  Tli  jy  possess  a  quick  seiisibility  to  the  beauties  of  na- 
ture, ant^  a  keen  relish  for  the  pleasures  r.nd  employments  of 
the  counti'y.  This  passion  seems  inherent  in  them.  Even  the 
inhal)ilants  of  cities,  born  and  brought  up  among  brick  walls 
and  hustling  streets,  enter  with  facility  into  rural  habits,  and 
3viiK'e  .1  tact  for  rural  occupation.  The  merchant  has  his  snug 
retreat  lU  the  vicinity  of  the  metropolis,  where  he  often  dis- 
plays as  much  {)ride  and  zeal  in  the  cultivation  of  his  flower- 
garden,  and  the  maturing  of  his  fruits,  as  he  does  in  the  conduct 
()f  his  business,  and  the  success  of  a  commercial  entei'prise. 
Even  those  less  fortunate  individuals,  who  are  doomed  to  pass 
their  lives  in  the  midst  of  din  and  tiaffic,  contrive  to  have  some- 
thing thut  shall  remind  them  of  the  green  aspect  of  nature.  In 
tlie  most  dark  and  dingy  quarters  of  the  city,  the  drawing- 
room  window   icseiubles   frequently  a  bank  of  flowers;  every 


so 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


If 


Bpot  capable  of  vegetation  lias  its  grass-plot  and  flower-bed; 
and  every  square  its  mimic  park,  laid  out  with  picturesque  taste, 
and  gleaming  with  refreshing  verdure. 

Those  who  see  the  Englishman  only  in  town,  are  apt  to  form 
an  unfavorable  opinion  of  his  social  character.  He  is  either 
absorbed  in  business,  or  distracted  by  the  thousand  engage- 
ments that  dissipate  time,  thought,  and  feeling,  in  this  huge 
metropolis.  Ho  Las,  therefore,  too  commonly,  a  look  of  hurry 
and  abstraction.  Wlicrever  he  happens  to  be,  he  is  on  the 
point  of  going  somewhere  else  ;  at  the  moment  he  ir  talking  on 
one  subject,  his  mind  is  wandering  to  another;  and  while  pay. 
ing  a  friendly  visit,  he  is  calculating  how  he  shall  economize 
time  so  as  to  pay  tlie  other  visits  allotted  in  the  morning.  An 
immense  metropolis,  like  London,  is  calculated  to  make  men 
selfish  and  uninteresting.  In  their  casual  and  transient  meet- 
ings, they  can  but  deal  briclly  in  commonplaces.  They  present 
but  the  cold  superficies  of  character  —  its  rich  and  genial  qual- 
ities have  no  time  to  be  warmed  into  a  flow. 

It  is  in  the  country  that  the  Englishman  gives  scope  to  his 
natural  feelings.  He  hreaiis  loose  gladly  from  the  cold  formal- 
ities and  negative  civilities  of  town,  throws  off  his  habits  of  shy 
reserve,  and  becomes  joyous  and  free-hearted.  He  manages  to 
collect  round  him  all  tlie  conveniences  and  elegancies  of  polite 
life,  and  to  banish  its  restraints.  His  country-seat  abounds 
with  every  requisite,  either  for  studious  retirement,  tasteful 
gratifit-ation,  or  rural  exercise.  Books,  paintings,  music,  horses, 
dogs,  and  sporting  implements  of  all  kinds,  are  at  hand.  He 
puts  no  constraint,  either  upon  his  guests  or  himself,  but,  in  the 
true  spirit  of  hospitality,  provides  the  means  of  enjoyment,  and 
leaves  every  oue  to  partake  according  to  his  inclination. 

The  taste  of  the  English  in  the  cultivation  of  land,  and  in 
what  is  called  landscape  gardening,  is  unrivalled.  They  havo 
studied  Nature  intently,  and  discover  an  exquisite  sense  of 
her  beautiful  forms  and  harmonious  combinations.  Thos 
charms  which,  in  other  countries,  she  lavishes  in  wild  soli- 
tudes, are  here  assembled  round  t'^e  haunts  of  domestic  life. 
They  seem  lo  have  caught  her  coy  and  furtive  graces,  an<i 
spread  them,  like  witchery,  about  their  rural  abodes. 

Notliing  can  be  more  imposing  than  the  magnificence  of  Eng- 
lish park  scenery.  Vast  lawns  that  extend  like  sheets  of  vivid 
green,  with  here  and  there  chimps  of  gigantic  trees,  heaping  up 
rich  piles  of  foliage.  The  solemn  pomp  of  groves  and  wood- 
land glades,  with  the  deer  trooping  in  silent  herds  across  them; 
the  hare,  bounding  away  to  the  covert ;  or  the  pheasant,  sud 


denly  bursting 
natural  meandc 
tered  pool,  rett( 
sleeping  on  its 
its  limpid  wate 
grown  green  ai 
to  the  scclusioi 
These  are  b 
what  most  del 
Englisli  decor; 
The  rudest  ha 
tion  of  land,  ii 
a  little  paradifc 
at  once  upon  i1 
landscape,  '1 
hand ;  and  yet 
are  scarcely  to 
some  trees ;  tlv 
of  flowers  and 
(liiction  of  a  gi 
peep  of  blue  ti 
managed  with 
like  the  mngii 
favorite  pictur 

The  resiilei 
country,  has  ^ 
economy,  tli;<t 
with  his  thate 
their  embellisl 
door,  the  littU 
trained  up  ag; 
lattice  ;  the  pc 
planted  about 
to  throw  in  a 
—  all  these  In 
high  sources, 
mind.  If  ev( 
it  must  be  tilt 

The  fondue 
Englisli,  has 
character,     I 
gentlemen, 
eliuractcirizt! 
a  union  of 


.  it  i 


BUBAL   LIFE  IN  ENGLAND. 


61 


denly  bursting  upon  the  wing.  The  brook,  taught  to  wind  in 
natural  raeanderings,  or  expand  into  a  glassy  lake  —  the  seques- 
tered pool,  reflecting  the  quivering  trees,  with  the  yellow  leaf 
sleeping  on  its  bosom,  and  the  trout  roaming  fearlessly  about 
its  limpid  waters :  while  some  rustic  temple,  or  sylvan  statue, 
grown  green  and  dank  with  age,  gives  an  air  of  classic  sanctity 
to  the  seclusion. 

These  are  but  a  few  of  the  features  of  park  scenery ;  but 
what  most  delights  me,  is  the  creative  talent  with  which  the 
Knglish  decorate  the  unostentatious  abodes  of  middle  life. 
The  rudest  habitation,  the  most  unpromising  and  scanty  por- 
tion of  land,  in  the  hands  of  an  Englishman  of  taste,  becomes 
a  little  paradise.  With  a  nicely  discriminating  eye,  he  seizes 
at  once  upon  its  capabilities,  and  pictures  in  his  mind  the  future 
landscape.  The  sterile  spot  gn  ws  into  loveliness  under  his 
hand ;  and  yet  the  operations  of  art  which  produce  the  effect 
are  scarcely  to  be  perceived.  The  cherishing  and  training  of 
some  trees  ;  the  cautious  pruning  of  others  ;  the  nice  distribution 
of  flowers  and  plants  of  tender  and  gracefid  foliage  ;  the  intro- 
duction of  a  green  slope  of  velvet  turf ;  the  partial  opening  to  a 
peep  of  blue  distance,  or  silver  gleam  of  water  —  all  these  are 
managed  with  a  delicate  tact,  a  i)ervading  yet  quiet  assiduity, 
like  the  inngic  touchings  with  which  a  painter  finishes  up  a 
favorite  picture. 

The  residence  of  people  of  fortune  and  refinement  in  the 
country,  has  ditfused  a  degree  of  taste  and  elegance  in  rural 
economy,  thi't  descends  to  the  lowest  class.  The  very  laborer, 
with  his  thatched  cottage  and  narrow  slip  of  ground,  attends  to 
their  embellishment.  The  trim  hedge,  the  grass-plot  before  the 
door,  the  little  flower- bed  bordered  '..ith  snug  box,  the  woodbine 
trained  up  against  the  wall,  and  hanging  its  blossoms  about  the 
lattice  ;  the  i)ot  of  floweis  in  the  window ;  the  holly,  providently 
planted  about  the  house,  to  cheat  winter  of  its  dreariness,  and 
to  throw  in  a  semblance  of  green  summer  to  cheer  the  fireside: 
^all  these  bespeak  the  influence  of  taste,  flowing  down  from 
lji<2;h  sources,  and  pervading  the  lowest  levels  of  the  public 
mind.  If  ever  Love,  as  poets  sing,  delights  to  visit  a  cottage, 
it  must  be  the  cott.-tge  of  an  English  i)e!isHnt. 

The  fondness  for  rni'id  life  among  the  higher  classes  of  the 
Euglisli,  has  had  a  great  and  salutary  effect  upon  the  national 
character.  I  do  not  know  a  finer  race  of  men  than  the  English 
goiitU'inen.  Instead  ot  the  softness  and  effeminacy  which 
diaracterize  the  men  of  rank  in  most  countries,  they  exhibit 
a  union  of  elegance  and  strenHth,  a  robustness  of  frame  acd 


. ,  )  .11 


»f 


■    (■ 


:  J: 


lU 


f .' 

('  r 


111 


1  1 


ii  . 


i 

(  j 

\ 

,   I' 

1 

\ 

52 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


freshness  of  complexion,  which  I  am  inclined  to  attribute  to 
their  living  so  much  in  the  open  air,  and  pursuing  so  eagerly 
the  invigorating  recreations  of  the  country.  These  hardy  exci, 
cises  produce  also  a  healthful  tone  of  mmd  and  spirits,  and  a 
manliness  and  simplicity  of  manners,  which  even  the  follies  and 
dissipations  of  the  town  cannot  easily  pervert,  and  can  never 
entirely  destroy.  In  the  country,  too,  the  different  orders  of 
society  seem  to  approach  more  freely,  to  be  more  disposed  to 
blend  and  operate  favorably  upon  each  other.  The  distinctions 
between  them  do  not  appear  to  be  so  marked  and  impassable, 
as  in  the  cities.  The  manner  in  which  property  has  been  dia- 
tributcd  into  small  estates  and  farms,  has  established  a  regular 
gradation  from  the  nobleman,  through  the  classes  of  gentry, 
small  landed  proprietors,  and  substantial  farmers,  down  to  the 
laboring  peasantry  ;  and  while  it  has  thus  banded  the  extremes 
of  society  together,  has  infused  into  each  ibcermediate  rank  a 
spirit  of  independence.  This,  it  must  be  confessed,  is  not  so 
universally  the  case  at  present  as  it  was  formerly ;  the  larger 
estates  having,  in  late  years  of  distress,  absorbed  the  smaller, 
and,  in  some  parts  of  the  country,  almost  annihilated  the  sturdy 
race  of  small  farmers.  These,  however,  I  believe,  are  but  cas- 
ual breaks  in  the  general  system  I  have  mentioned. 

In  rural  occupation,  there  is  nothing  mean  and  debasing.  It 
leads  a  man  forth  among  scenes  of  natural  grandeur  and  beau- 
ty ;  it  leaves  him  to  the  workings  of  his  own  mind,  operated 
upon  by  the  purest  and  most  elevating  of  external  influences. 
Such  a  man  may  be  simple  and  rough,  but  he  cannot  be  vulgar. 
The  I  ^n  of  refinement,  therefore,  finds  nothing  revolting  io 
an  intercourse  mih  the  lower  orders  in  rural  life,  as  he  does 
when  he  casually  mingles  with  the  lower  orders  of  cities.  He 
lays  aside  his  distance  an(^  reserve,  and  is  glad  to  waive  the 
distinctions  of  rank,  and  to  enter  into  the  honest,  heart-felt 
enjoyments  of  common  life.  Indeed,  the  very  amusements  of 
the  country  bring  men  more  and  more  together ;  and  the  sound 
of  hound  and  horn  blend  all  feelings  into  harmony.  I  believe 
this  is  one  great  reason  why  the  nobility  and  gentry  are  more 
popular  among  the  inferior  orders  in  England,  than  they  are  in 
any  other  country ;  and  why  the  latter  have  endured  so  many 
excessive  pressures  and  extremities,  without  repining  more 
generally  at  the  unequal  distribution  of  fortune  and  privilege. 

To  this  mingling  of  cultivated  and  rustic  society,  may  also 
be  attributed  the  rural  feeling  that  runs  through  British  litera' 
ture ;  the  frequent  use  of  illustrations  from  mral  life ;  those 
incomparable  descriptions  of  Nature,  that  abound  in  the  British 


RURAL   LIFE  IN  ENGLAND. 


53 


poets  —  that  have  continued  down  from  '-the  Florer  and  the 
Loaf"  of  Chaucer,  and  have  brought  into  our  closets  all  the 
freshness  and  fragrance  of  the  dewy  landscape.  The  pastoral 
writers  of  other  countries  appear  as  if  they  had  paid  Nature 
an  occasional  visit,  and  become  acquainted  with  her  general 
charms ;  but  tlie  British  poets  have  lived  and  revelled  with  her 
—  they  have  wooed  her  in  her  most  secret  haunts  —  they  have 
watched  her  minutest  caprices.  A  spray  could  not  tremble  in 
the  breeze  —  a  leaf  could  not  rustle  to  the  ground  —  a  diamond 
drop  could  not  patter  in  the  stream  —  a  fragrance  could  not  ex- 
hale from  the  humble  violet,  nor  a  daisy  unfold  its  crimson  tints 
to  the  morning,  but  it  has  been  noticed  by  these  impassioned 
and  delicate  observers,  and  wrought  up  into  some  beautiffil 
morality. 

The  effect  of  this  devotion  of  elegant  minds  to  rural  occupa- 
tions, has  been  wonderful  on  the  face  of  the  country.  A  great 
part  of  the  island  is  rather  level,  and  would  be  monotonous, 
were  it  not  for  the  charms  of  culture ;  but  it  is  studded  and 
gemmed,  as  it  were,  with  castles  and  palaces,  and  embroidered 
with  parks  and  gardens.  It  does  not  abound  in  grand  and 
sublime  prospects,  but  rather  in  little  home  scenes  of  rural 
repose  and  sheltered  quiet.  Every  antique  farm-house  and 
moss-grown  cottage  is  a  picture  ;  and  as  the  roads  are  continu- 
ally winding,  and  the  view  is  shut  in  by  groves  and  hedges,  the 
eye  is  delighted  by  a  continual  succession  of  small  landscapes 
of  captivating  loveliness. 

The  great  charm,  however,  of  English  scenery,  is  the  moral 
feeling  that  seems  to  pervade  it.  It  is  associated  in  the  mind 
with  ideas  of  order,  of  quiet,  of  sober  well-established  princi- 
ples, of  hoary  usage  and  reverend  custom.  Every  thing  seems 
to  be  the  growth  of  ages  of  regular  and  peaceful  existence. 
The  old  church,  of  remote  architecture,  with  its  low  massive 
portal ;  its  Gothic  tower ;  its  windows,  rich  with  tracery  and 
painted  glass,  in  scrupulous  preservation  —  its  stately  monu- 
ments of  warriors  and  worthies  of  the  olden  time,  ancestors  of 
the  present  lords  of  the  soil  —  its  tombstones,  recording  suc- 
cessive generations  of  sturdy  yeomainy,  whose  progeny  still 
plough  the  same  fields,  and  kneel  at  the  same  altar  —  the  par- 
Honage,  a  quaint  irregular  pile,  partly  antiquated,  but  repaired 
an<'  altered  in  the  tastes  of  various  ages  and  occupants  —  the 
Ktile  and  footpath  leading  from  the  church-yard,  across  pleasant 
fields,  and  along  shady  hedge-rows,  according  to  an  immemora- 
ble  right  of  way  —  the  neighboring  village,  with  its  venerable 
cottages,  its  public  green,  sheltered  by  trees,  under  which  th9 


1  -I 


54 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


forefathers  of  the  present  race  have  sported  —  the  autiqiie 
family  mansion,  standing  apart  in  some  little  rural  domain,  but 
looking  down  with  a  protecting  air  on  the  surrounding  scene  — 
all  these  common  features  of  English  landscape  evince  a  culm 
and  settled  security,  an  hereditary  transmission  of  home-hrt'd 
virtues  and  local  attachments,  tliat  speak  deeply  and  touchingly 
for  the  moral  character  of  the  nation. 

It  is  a  pleasing  sight,  of  a  Sunday  morning,  when  the  bell  is 
sending  its  sober  melody  across  the  quiet  fields,  to  behold  the 
peasantry  in  their  best  finery,  with  ruddj'  faces,  and  modest 
cheerfulness,  thronging  tranquilly  along  the  green  lanes  to 
church ;  but  it  is  still  more  pleasing  to  see  them  in  the  even' 
ings,  gathering  about  their  cottage  doors,  and  appearing  to 
exult  in  the  humble  comforts  and  embellishments  which  their 
own  hands  have  spread  around  them. 

It  is  this  sweet  home  feeling,  this  settled  repose  of  affection 
in  the  domestic  scene,  that  is,  after  all,  the  parent  of  the 
steadiest  virtues  and  purest  enjoyments ;  and  I  cannot  close 
these  desultory  remarks  better  than  by  quoting  the  words  of  a 
modern  English  poet,  who  has  depicted  it  with  remarkable 
felicity. 

Through  each  gradation,  from  the  castled  hall, 
The  city  dome,  the  villa  crown'd  with  Hhade, 
But  chief  from  modcat  maiiKlons  nimibcrlesB, 
In  town  or  hamlet,  sholt'ririg  middle  life, 
Down  to  the  cottaged  rale,  and  Htraw-roof'd  nhed; 
This  western  Isle  hath  lone  licuii  famed  for  scenes 
Where  bliss  domestic  finds  a  dwelling-place; 
Domestic  bliss,  that,  like  a  harmless  duve, 
(Honor  and  sweet  endearment  keeping  guard) 
Can  centre  in  a  little  quiet  nest 
All  that  desire  would  fly  for  through  the  earth; 
That  can,  the  world  eluding,  he  itself 
A  world  enjoy'd ;  that  wants  no  witnesses 
But  Its  own  sharers,  and  approving  Heaven; 
That,  like  a  flower  deep  hid  in  rocky  cleft. 
Smiles,  though  'tis  looking  only  at  the  sky.* 


'  From  •  poem  on  the  death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte,  by  the  Reverend  Bano 
Kannwly,  A.M. 


H' 


THE  liliOKh'X   IIKAHT. 


AA 


THE  BROKEN   HEART. 


I  never  heard 
Of  any  true  affeotlon,  but  'twiiH  nipt 
Wllh  care,  tliiit,  like  the  ciiter|illlur,  eatn 
The  leaves  of  llie  upriiig's  Hwuetent  txiok,  the  rose.  —  ^f  idd'.f.Ti-n. 

It  is  a  common  practice  with  tliosc  wlio  liavc  ouUiNcd  Ha-, 
yusccptibility  of  early  feeliiifj,  or  have  been  bronchi  up  iii  the 
gay  lieartlessness  of  dissipated  life,  to  laugh  at  all  love  stories, 
and  to  treat  the  tales  of  roiDantic  passion  as  mere  lietions  ot 
novelists  and  poets.  My  observations  on  human  nature  have 
induced  me  to  think  otherwise.  They  have  convinced  me,  tiint 
however  the  surface  of  the  character  may  be  chilled  and  frozen 
by  the  cares  of  the  world,  or  cultivated  into  mere  smiles  by  the 
arts  of  society,  still  there  are  dormant  (ires  Iurkii:<j  in  the  dei)ths 
of  the  coldest  bosom,  which,  when  once  enkindled,  l»ecome  im- 
petuous, and  are  sometimes  desolating  in  their  effects.  Indeed, 
I  am  a  true  believer  in  ihe  blind  deity,  and  go  to  the  full  extent 
of  his  doctrines.  Shall  I  confess  it?  —  I  believe  in  broken 
hearts,  and  the  possibility  of  dying  of  disappointed  love  !  1  do 
not,  however,  consider  it  a  malady  often  fatal  to  my  own  sex ; 
but  I  firmly  believe  that  it  withers  down  many  a  lovely  woman 
into  an  early  grave. 

Man  is  tlie  creature  of  interest  and  ambition.  His  nature 
leads  him  forth  into  the  struggle  and  bustle  of  the  world.  Love 
is  but  the  embellishment  of  his  early  life,  or  a  song  piped  in 
the  intervals  of  the  acts.  He  seeks  for  fame,  for  fortune,  for 
space  in  the  world's  thought,  and  dominion  over  his  fellow-men. 
Hut  a  woman's  whole  life  is  a  history  of  the  afTectious.  The 
heart  is  her  world  ;  it  is  there  her  ambition  strives  for  empire 
—  it  is  there  her  avarice  seeks  for  hidden  treasures.  She  sends 
forth  her  sympathies  on  adventure ;  she  embarks  her  whole 
soul  in  the  tratlic  of  alTection  ;  and  if  shipwrecked,  her  case  is 
hopeless  —  for  it  is  a  bankruptcy  of  the  henrt. 

To  a  man,  the  disappointment  of  love  may  occasion  some 
bitter  pangs:  it  wounds  some  feelings  of  tenderness  —  it  blasts 
some  prospects  of  felicity ;  but  he  is  an  active  being ;  he  may 
dissipate  his  thoughts  in  the  whirl  of  varied  occupation,  or  may 
plunge  into  the  tide  of  pleasure  ;  or,  if  the  scene  of  disappoint- 
ment be  too  full  of  painful  associations,  he  can  shift  his  abode 
at  will,  and  taking,  as  it  were,  the  wiiig->  of  the  morning,  cao 
"  fly  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth,  and  be  at  rest." 


>  y 


1*1  J 


69 


rnic  sKKTcn-iiooK. 


\\ 


;.:■! 


w 


But  woman's  is  comparatively  a  fixed,  a  secluded,  and  modi- 
tative  life.  She  is  more  the  companion  of  her  own  thoughts 
and  feelings ;  and  if  they  are  turned  to  ministers  of  sorrow, 
where  shall  .she  look  for  consolation  ?  Ilcr  lot  in  to  be  woood 
•md  won;  and  ':  unhapi)y  in  her  love,  her  heart  is  like  sonio 
fortress  that  has  been  captured,  and  sacked,  and  abandoned, 
and  left  desolate. 

How  many  bright  eyes  grow  dim  —  how  many  soft  cheeks 
grow  pale  —  how  many  lovely  forms  fade  away  into  the  tomli, 
and  none  can  tell  the  cause  that  blighted  their  loveliness  !  As 
the  dove  will  clasp  its  wings  to  its  side,  and  cover  and  conceal 
the  arrow  that  is  preying  on  its  vitals  —  so  is  it  the  nature  of 
woman,  to^hide  from  the  world  the  pangs  of  wounded  affection. 
The  love  of  a  delicate  female  is  always  shy  and  silent.  Even 
when  fortunate,  she  scarcely  breathes  it  to  herself ;  but  when 
otherwise,  she  buries  it  in  the  recesses  of  her  bosom,  and  there 
lets  it  cower  and  brood  among  the  ruins  of  her  peace.  Wild 
her,  the  desire  of  the  heart  has  failed  —  the  great  charm  ol 
existence  is  at  au  cud.  She  neglects  all  the  cheerful  exercises 
which  gladden  the  spirits,  quicken  the  pulses,  and  send  the  tide 
of  life  in  healthful  currents  through  the  veins.  Her  rest  is 
i)roken  —  the  sweet  refreshment  of  sleep  is  poisoned  by  nielun- 
choly  dreams  —  "  dry  sorrow  drinks  her  blo<xl,"  until  her  en- 
feebled frame  sinks  under  the  slightest  external  injury.  Look 
for  her,  after  a  little  while,  and  you  find  friendship  weeplnn 
ever  her  untimely  grave,  and  wondering  that  one,  who  but 
lately  glowed  with  all  the  radiance  of  health  and  beauty,  should 
so  speedily  be  brought  down  to  "darkness  and  the  worm." 
You  will  be  told  of  some  wintry  chill,  some  casual  indisposi- 
tion, that  laid  her  low  —  but  no  one  knows  of  the  mental  malaily 
which  previously  sapped  her  strength,  and  made  her  so  easy  a 
prey  to  the  spoiler. 

She  is  like  some  tender  tree,  the  pride  and  beauty  of  the 
grove :  graceful  in  its  form,  brigiit  in  its  foliage,  but  with  tin 
worm  preying  at  its  heart.  We  find  it  suddenly  witherin<;, 
when  it  should  be  most  fresh  and  luxuriant.  We  see  it  droop- 
ing its  branches  to  the  earth,  and  shedding  leaf  by  leaf ;  uutil, 
wasted  and  perished  away,  it  falls  even  in  the  stillness  of  the 
forest;  and  as  we  muse  over  the  beautiful  ruin,  we  strive  in 
vain  to  recollect  the  blast  or  thunderbolt  that  could  have  smit- 
ten it  with  decay. 

I  have  seen  many  instances  of  women  running  to  waste  and 
self-neglect,  and  disappearing  gradually  from  the  earth,  jdinost 
as  if  they  had  been  exhaled  to  heaven  ;  and  have   repeatedly 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 


67 


fancied  that  I  could  trace  their  deaths  tlirough  the  various  de* 
clensions  of  consumption  cold,  debility,  languor,  melancholy, 
until  1  reached  the  first  symptom  of  disappointed  love.  But 
ail  instance  of  the  kind  was  lately  told  to  me ;  the  circum- 
stunces  are  well  known  in  the  country  where  they  happened, 
and  I  shall  but  give  them  in  the  manner  in  which  they  were 
re  luted. 

Every  one  must  recollect  the  tragical  story  of  young  E ^ 

the  Irish  patriot :  it  was  too  touching  to  be  soon  forgotten. 
During  the  troubles  in  Ireland  he  was  tried,  condemned,  and 
executed,  on  a  charge  of  treason.  His  fate  made  a  deep  im- 
pression on  public  sympathy.  He  was  so  young  —  so  intelli- 
gent —  so  generous  —  so  brave  —  so  every  thing  that  we  are  apt 
to  like  in  a  young  man.  His  conduct  under  trial,  too,  was  so 
lofty  and  intrepicl.  The  noble  indignation  with  which  he  re- 
pelled the  charge  of  treason  against  liis  country  —  the  eloquent 
vindication  of  his  name  —  and  his  pathetic  appeal  to  posterity, 
in  the  hopeless  hour  of  condemnation  —  all  these  entered  deeply 
into  every  generous  bosom,  and  even  his  enemies  lamented  the 
stern  policy  that  dictated  his  execution. 

But  there  was  one  heart,  whose  anguish  it  would  be  impossi- 
ble to  describe.  In  happier  days  and  fairer  fortunes  he  had 
won  the  affections  of  a  beautiful  and  interesting  gu-l,  the  daugh- 
ter of  a  late  celebrated  Irish  barrister.  She  loved  him  with  the 
disinterested  fervor  of  a  woman's  first  and  early  love.  When 
every  worldly  maxim  arrayed  itself  against  him  ;  when  blasted 
in  fortune,  and  disgrace  and  danger  darkened  around  his  name, 
she  loved  him  the  more  ardently  for  his  very  sufferings.  If, 
then,  his  fate  could  awaken  the  sympathy  even  of  his  foes^ 
what  must  have  been  the  agony  of  her,  whose  whole  soul  was 
uccupied  by  his  image  ?  Let  those  tell  who  have  had  the  portals 
of  the  tomb  suddenly  closed  between  them  and  the  being  they 
liiost  loved  on  earth  —  who  have  sat  at  its  threshold,  as  one 
shut  out  in  a  cold  and  lonely  world,  whence  all  "ihat  was  most 
lively  and  loving  had  departed. 

But  then  the  horrors  of  such  a  grave !  —  so  frightful,  so  dis- 
honored !  There  was  nothing  for  memory  to  dwell  on  that 
could  soothe  the  pang  of  separation  —  none  of  those  tender* 
though  melancholy  circumstances,  which  endear  the  parting  scent 
—  nothing  to  melt  son-ow  into  those  blessed  tears,  sent,  like 
the  dews  of  heaven,  to  revive  the  heait  in  the  parting  hour  of 
anguish. 

To  render  her  widowed  situation  more  desolate,  she  had 
incurred  her  fiitlier'tj  disi)leasure  by  her  unfortunate  attach- 


\*'' 


I/' 


,Hf 


11?  i 


t1 


fi8 


TUK  SKETCU-liOOK. 


ment,  and  was  an  pxllc  from  the  paternal  roof.  Hut  could  tht 
synipatliy  ajid  kiii'l  ollicos  of  friends  have  reached  a  spirit  so 
shocked  and  (hiver.  in  by  horror,  she  wouhl  have  experienced 
no  want  of  consohiiion,  for  the  Irish  are  a  people  of  quick  and 
irenerons  8ensil)ilities.  Tiie  most  delicate  and  cherishiufj  atten- 
tions wc'^  i)aid  lier,  liy  families  of  wealth  and  distinction. 
She  was  led  into  soeifly.  and  they  triid  hy  all  kinds  of  occiipn 
tion  and  amusement  to  dissipate  her  grief,  and  wean  her  fmn 
the  tragical  story  of  her  loves.  But  it  was  all  in  vuiu.  Then 
are  some  strokes  of  calamity  which  scathe  and  scorch  the  sonl  — 
which  penetrate  to  the  vitnl  seal  of  iiap|)niess  —  and  lilast  !;, 
never  again  to  pill  I'ortii  luid  oi-  Mossom.  She  neviT  oltjtchd 
to  frequent  the  haunts  of  pleasure,  hut  was  si  •  much  alone  tluic, 
as  in  the  depths  of  solitiidi";  walking  aboui  in  a  s;ul  ri'Verif, 
apparently  unconscious  of  the  world  around  her.  She  carried 
with  her  an  inward  woe  that  mocked  at  all  the  blandishments 
of  friendship,  and  "heeded  not  the  song  of  the  charmer,  charm 
he  never  so  wiaely." 

The  person  who  told  me  her  story  had  seen  her  at  a  mas- 
querade. There  can  be  no  exhibition  of  far-gone  wretchedness 
more  striking  and  painful  than  to  meet  it  in  such  a  scene.  To 
find  it  wandering  like  a  si)ectre,  lonely  and  joyless,  where  all 
around  is  gaj'  —  to  see  it  dressed  out  in  the  trappings  of  mirth, 
and  looking  so  wan  and  wo-begone,  as  if  it  had  tried  in  vain  to 
cheat  the  poor  heart  into  a  momentary  forgetfulness  of  sorrow. 
.Alter  strolling  through  the  splendid  rooms  and  giddy  crowd 
with  an  air  of  utter  abstraction,  she  sat  herself  down  on  the 
steps  of  an  orchestra,  and  looking  about  for  some  time  with  a 
vacant  air,  that  showed  her  insensibility  to  the  garish  scene, 
she  began,  with  the  cajjriciousness  of  a  sickly  heart,  to  warble 
a  little  plaintive  air.  She  had  an  exquisite  voice  ;  but  on  this 
occasion  it  was  so  simple,  so  touching  —  it  breathed  forth  such 
a  soul  of  wretchedness  —  that  she  drew  a  crowd,  mute  and 
silent,  around  her.  and  melted  every  one  into  tears. 

The  story  of  one  so  true  and  tender  could  not  but  excite 
great  interest  in  a  country  remarkable  for  enthusiasm.  It 
completely  won  the  heart  of  a  brave  oflicer,  who  paid  his 
addresses  to  her,  and  thought  that  one  so  true  to  the  deail, 
could  not  but  prove  affectionate  to  the  living.  She  declined  his 
attentions,  for  her  thoughts  were  irrevocably  engrossed  by  the 
memory  of  her  former  lover.  He,  however,  persisted  in  his 
suit  lie  solicited  not  her  tnidcrness,  but  her  esteem.  He 
was  assislea  ny  her  conviction  of  his  worth,  and  her  sense  of 
her  own  destitute  and  dependent  situation,  foi-  she  was  existing 


on  the  kindnc 
in  gaining  Ik 
lior  heart  was 

He  took  h 
scene  might 
was  an  amiai.) 
happy  one  ; 
melancholy  tl 
away  in  a  sh 
the  grave,  tin 

It  was  on  I 
posed  the  foil 

Sh 
Al 

n( 

N. 

O 
T 


"  If  thai  BPVPi 
itien'H  laboi-H  thii 
Anatomy  of  Mela 

I  HAVK  of 

and  how  it  c 
seemed  to  h; 
voluminous 
the  journey 
he  is  contiu 


TUE  ART  OF  liOOK-MAKlNO. 


69 


on  the  kindness  of  friends.  In  u  word,  lie  at  length  succeeded 
in  guining  her  hand,  thongli  with  the  suleuin  usHurance,  tlmt 
her  heart  was  unalterably  another's. 

He  took  her  with  him  to  Sicily,  hoping  that  a  change  of 
scene  might  wear  out  thi'  remembrance  of  early  woes.  She 
was  an  amiaole  and  exemplary  wife,  and  made  an  effort  to  be  a 
happy  one  ;  but  nothing  could  cure  the  silent  and  devouring 
melancholy  that  had  entered  into  her  very  soul.  She  wasted 
away  in  a  slow,  but  hopeless  decline,  and  at  length  sunk  into 
the  grave,  the  victim  of  a  broken  heart. 

It  was  on  her  that  Moore,  the  distinguished  Irish  poet,  com- 
posed the  following  lines : 

Blie  irt  far  from  (ho  IntuI  where  hnr  ^'oung  hero  aleepa, 

And  loviiM  iirouml  her  art' niyhjitf; 
Dtit  roMly  Hhi>  tiiriiH  fruiii  tlicir  ^aze,  mid  weeps, 
For  hor  hi'urt  in  hin  ijrave  i«  lying. 

She  glnifH  the  wild  nnnf^it  of  her  iloar  native  plalna. 

Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking  — 
Ah!  little  they  thiiik,  who  delight  in  lier  Htraina, 

IIow  the  heart  of  the  ni.iiHtrel  Ih  breaking! 

He  had  lived  for  hio  love  —  for  hlH  country  he  diedi 

They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  hlin  — 
Nor  soon  nliall  the  learH  of  hln  country  be  dried. 

Nor  long  will  hlx  love  utiiy  behiud  hiiu  I 

Oht  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbcainB  rest, 

When  they  proniiHe  a  glorious  morrow ; 
They'll  Hbiuu  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  tiinilc  from  the  west, 

From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow  I 


THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING. 


"Tf  that  severe  doom  of  Synenius  be  true  — 'it  is  a  greater  offence  to  steaJ  dead 
men's  labors  than  their  clothes,'  —  what  shall  become  of  most  writers?  " — BuBTOM'S 
Anatomy  of  Meluncholy. 

I  HAVK  often  wondered  at  the  extreme  fecundit}'  of  the  press, 
and  how  it  comes  to  pass  that  so  many  heads,  on  which  Nature 
seemed  to  have  iiillicti!d  the  curse  of  barrenness,  should  teem  with 
voluininous  piodiictions.  As  a  man  tiavels  on,  however,  in 
the  journey  of  life,  his  objects  of  wonder  daily  diminish,  and 
he  is  continually  finding  out  some  very  simple  cause  for  some 


60 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


great  matter  of  marvel.  Thus  have  I  chanced,  m  my  peregri- 
nations  about  this  great  metropolis,  to  blunder  upon  a  scene 
which  unfolded  to  me  some  of  the  mysteries  of  the  book-making 
craft,  and  at  once  put  an  end  to  my  astonishment. 

I  was  one  summer's  day  loitering  through  the  great  saloons 
of  the  British  Museum,  with  that  listlessness  with  which  one  ia 
apt  to  saunter  about  a  museum  in  warm  weather;  sometimes  loll- 
ing over  the  glass  cases  of  minerals,  sometimes  studying  the 
hieroglyphics  on  an  Egyptian  mummy,  and  sometimes  trying, 
with  nearly  equal  success,  to  comprehend  the  allegorical  paint- 
ings on  the  lofty  ceilings.  Whilst  I  was  gazing  about  in  this 
idle  way,  my  attention  was  attracted  to  a  distant  door,  at  the 
end  of  a  suite  of  apartments.  It  was  closed,  but  every  now 
and  then  it  would  open,  and  some  strange-favored  being,  gen- 
erally clothed  in  black,  would  steal  forth,  and  glide  through 
the  rooms,  without  noticing  any  of  the  surrounding  objects. 
There  was  an  air  of  mystery  about  this  that  piqued  my  languid 
curiosity,  and  I  determined  to  attempt  the  passage  of  that 
strait,  and  to  explore  the  unknown  regions  beyond.  The  door 
yielded  to  my  hand,  with  that  facility  with  which  the  por- 
tals of  enchanted  castles  yield  to  the  adventurous  knigbt- 
errant.  I  found  myself  in  a  spacious  chamber,  surrounded  with 
great  cases  of  venerable  books.  Above  the  cases,  and  just 
under  the  cornice,  were  arranged  a  great  number  of  black- 
looking  portraits  of  ancient  authors.  About  the  room  were 
placed  long  tables,  with  stands  for  reading  and  writing,  at 
which  sat  many  pale,  studious  personages,  poring  intently 
over  dusty  volumes,  rummaging  among  mouldy  manuscripts, 
and  taking  copious  noics  of  their  content^a.  A  hushed  still- 
ness reigned  through  this  mysterious  apartment,  excepthig 
that  you  might  hear  the  racing  of  pens  over  sheets  of  paper,  or, 
occasionally,  the  deep  sigh  of  one  of  these  sages,  as  he  shifted 
Ills  position  to  turn  over  the  page  of  an  old  folio;  doubtless 
arising  from  that  hollowness  and  flatulency  incident  to  learned 
research. 

Now  and  then  one  of  these  personages  would  write  something 
on  a  small  slip  of  paper,  and  ring  a  bell,  whereupon  a  familiar 
would  appear,  take  the  paper  in  profound  silence,  glide  out  of 
the  room,  and  return  shortly  loaded  with  ponderous  tomes, 
upon  which  the  other  would  fall,  tooth  and  nail,  with  famished 
voracity.  I  had  no  longer  a  doubt  that  I  had  happened  upon  a 
body  of  magi,  deeply  engaged  in  the  study  of  occult  sciences. 
The  scene  reminded  me  of  an  old  Arabian  tale,  of  a  philoso- 
pher, shut  up  in  au   enchanted  library,   in  the   bosom  of  a 


mountain,  whi 
spirits  of  the 
knowledge,  s 
magic  portal  ' 
forth  so  vere 
above  the'hea 
Nature. 

Uy  curiosit 

the  familiars, 

an  interpretat 

were  sutticient 

personages,  v 

authors,  and  i 

in  fact,  in   t 

an  immense  ( 

many  of  whic 

read;   one  ol 

to  whieli  nic 

classic  lore,  < 

their  own  bcj 

Being  now 

and  watched 

one  lean,  bill 

worm-eaten  > 

constructing 

purchased  b^ 

placed  upon 

upon    his   tti 

then,  draw  a 

gnaw ;  whet 

ing  to  keep 

nnicli   pond( 

than  myself 

Thbre  wa 

clothes,  witl 

who  had  all 

his  bookselh 

in  him  a  dili 

tied  off  well 

ufactured  hi 

than  any  of 

over  the  Uni 

morsel  out » 

iiere  a  lilLlt 


THE  AHT  OF  BOOK-MAnlNG. 


61 


egri. 
cene 
king 


)0U8 

e  in 

loll- 

the 

aiut- 


mountain,  which  opened  only  once  a  year ;  where  he  made  the 
spirits  of  the  place  bring  him  books  of  all  kinds  of  dark 
knowledge,  so  that  at  the  end  of  the  year,  when  the 
magic  portal  once  more  swung  open  on  its  hinges,  he  issued 
forth  so  versed  in  forbidden  lore,  as  to  be  able  to  soar 
above  the  heads  of  tht  multitude,  and  to  control  the  powers  of 
Nature. 

My  curiosity  being  now  fully  aroused,  I  whispered  to  one  of 
the  familiars,  as  he  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  and  begged 
an  interpretation  of  the  strange  scene  before  me.  A  few  words 
were  sutticient  for  the  purpose :  —  I  found  that  these  mysterious 
personages,  whom  I  had  mistaken  for  magi,  were  principally 
authors,  and  in  the  very  act  of  manufacturing  books.  I  was, 
in  fact,  in  the  reading-room  of  the  great  British  Library, 
an  immense  collection  of  volumes  of  all  ages  and  languages, 
many  of  which  are  now  forgotten,  and  most  of  which  are  seldom 
read ;  one  of  these  sequestered  pools  of  obsolete  literature, 
to  which  modern  authors  repair,  and  draw  buckets  full  of 
classic  lore,  or  "pure  English,  uiuletiled,"  vt'herewith  to  swell 
their  own  scanty  rills  of  thought. 

Being  now  in  possession  of  the  secret,  I  sat  down  in  a  corner, 
and  watched  the  process  of  this  book  manufactory.  I  noticed 
one  lean,  bilious-looking  wight,  wiio  sought  none  but  the  most 
worm-eaten  volumes,  printed  in  black-letter.  He  was  evidently 
constructing  some  work  of  profound  erudition,  that  would  be 
purchased  by  every  man  who  wished  to  be  thought  learned, 
placed  upon  a  conspicuous  slielf  of  his  library,  or  laid  open 
upon  Ills  taldo  —  but  never  read.  I  observed  him,  now  and 
tlieii,  draw  a  large  fragment  of  bisciit  out  of  his  pocket,  and 
gnaw ;  whether  it  was  his  dinner,  or  whether  he  was  endeavor- 
ing to  keep  off  tluit  exhaustion  of  the  stomacii,  produced  by 
much  pondering  over  dry  works,  I  leave  to  harder  students 
than  myself  to  determine. 

Thbre  was  one  dapper  little  gentleman  in  bright  colored 
clothes,  vrith  a  chirping  gossiping  expression  of  countenance 
who  had  all  the  appearance  of  an  author  on  good  terms  with 
his  bookseller.  After  considering  him  attentively,  I  recognized 
in  him  a  diligent  gettci-up  of  miscelhineous  works,  which  bus- 
tled off  well  with  the  trade.  1  was  curious  to  see  how  he  man- 
ufactured his  wares.  He  made  more  stir  and  show  of  business 
than  any  of  the  others  ;  dipping  into  various  books,  flutteriog 
over  the  leaves  of  nuuuiscripts,  taking  a  morsel  out  of  one,  a 
morsel  out  of  another,  "  line  upon  line,  precept  upon  precept, 
iiere  a  litUu  and  there  a  litlie."     The  cuuleuts  of  his  book 


M 


i      >l 


!    ' 


62 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


Mf 


i: 


aeemed  to  bo  as  heterogeneous  as  those  of  the  witches'  caldron 
in  Macbeth.  It  was  here  a  finder  and  there  a  thumb,  toe  oi 
frog  and  blind  worm's  sting,  with  his  own  gossip  poured  in  like 
"  baboon's  blood,"  to  make  the  medley  "  slab  and  good." 

After  all,  thought  I,  may  not  this  pilfering  disposition  be  im  ■ 
planted  in  authors  for  wise  pur[)0ses  ?  may  it  not  be  the  way  in 
which  Providence  has  taken  care  that  the  seeds  of  knowledge 
and  wisdom  shall  be  preserved  fiom  age  to  age,  in  spiic  of  the 
inevitable  decay  of  the  works  in  which  they  were  first  produced? 
We  see  that  Natuio  has  wisely,  though  whimsically  provided 
for  the  conveyaiice  of  seedr  from  clime  to  clime,  in  the  maws 
of   certain  birds  ;   so  that  animals,  which,  in  themselves,  are 
l;:tle  blotter  lluui  carrion,  and  apparently  the  lawless  plunderers 
of  the  orchard  and  the  eorn-licUl,  are,  in  fact,  Nature's  cariiers 
to  disperse  and  perpetuate  her  blessings.     In  like  manner,  the 
beauties  and  fine  thoughts  of  ancient  and  obsolete  authors  -ire 
caught  up  by  theso  flights  of  predatory  writers,  and  cast  form, 
again  to  flourish  p.nd  bear  fruit  in  a  remote  and  distant  tract  of 
time.     Many  of  ilieir  works,  also,  undergo  a  kind  of  metempsy- 
chosis, and  spring  up  under  new  forms.     What  was  formerly  a 
pontlerous  history,  revives  in  the  shai)e  of  a  romance  —  an  old 
le;:fend  chanircs  into  a  modern  {>lay  —  and  a  sober  philosophical 
treatise  fiu'nishcs  the  body  fv>r  a  whole  series  of  bouncing  and 
sparkling  essays.     Thus  it  is  in  tlie  clearing  of  our  American 
woodlands;  where  we  burn  down  a  forest  of  statel}'  pines,  a 
progeny  of  dwarf  oaks  start  ui)  in  their  place  ;  and  we  nevei 
see  tlie  prostrate  trunk  of  a  iree,  mouldering  into  soil,  but  it 
gives  birth  to  a  wh'^le  tribe  of  fungi. 

Let  us  not,  tlien,  lament  over  the  decay  and  oblivion  into 
which  ancient  writ'^-s  descend  ;  they  do  but  submit  to  the  great 
law  of  Nature,  which  declares  that  all  sublunary  shapes  of  mat- 
ter shall  be  limited  in  their  duration,  but  which  decrees,  also, 
that  their  elements  shall  never  perish.  Generation  after  gen- 
eration, both  in  animal  and  vegetable  life,  passes  away,  but  the 
vital  principle  is  transmitted  to  posterity,  and  the  species  con- 
tinue to  flourish.  Thus,  also,  do  authors  beget  authors,  and 
having  produced  a  numerous  progeny,  in  a  good  old  age  they 
sleep  with  their  fathers ;  that  is  to  say,  with  the  authors  who 
preceded  them  —  and  from  whom  they  had  stolen. 

Whilst  I  was  indulging  in  these  rambling  fancies  I  had  leaned 
my  head  against  a  pile  of  reverend  folios.  Whether  it  was 
owing  to  the  soporific  emanations  from  these  works  ;  or  to  the 
pi ofound  quiet  of  the  room;  or  to  the  lassitude  arising  from 
much  wandering;  or  to  an  unluekv  habit  of  napping  at  im- 


THE  ART  OF  BOOK-MAKING. 


68 


proper  times  ami  placos,  witli  which  I  am  grievously  afflicted,  so 
it  was,  that  1  fell  into  a  do/e.  Still,  however,  my  imagination 
continued  busy,  and  indeed  the  same  scene  remained  before 
my  mind's  eye,  only  a  little  changed  in  some  of  the  details. 
1  dreamt  that  the  chamber  was  still  decorated  with  the  por- 
traits of  ancient  authors,  but  that  the  number  was  increased.  The 
(ong  tables  had  disappeared,  and  in  jilace  of  the  sage  magi,  I 
beheld  a  ragged,  threadbare  throng,  such  as  may  be  seen  plying 
about  the  great  repository  of  cast-oif  clothes,  Moninouth-street. 
Whenever  they  seized  upon  a  book,  by  one  of  those  incongru- 
ities common  to  dreams,  raethought  it  turned  into  a  garment  of 
foreign  or  antique  fashion,  with  which  they  proceeded  to  equip 
themselves.  1  noticed,  however,  that  no  one  pretended  to 
clothe  himself  from  any  particular  suit,  but  took  a  sleeve  from 
one,  a  cape  from  another,  a  skirt  from  a  third,  thus  decking 
himself  out  piecemeal,  while  some  of  his  original  rags  would 
peep  out  from  among  his  borrowed  tinery. 

'''licie  was  a  portly,  rosy,  well-fed  parson,  whom  I  observed 
ogling  several  mouldy  ])olemical  writers  through  an  eye-glass. 
He  soon  contrived  to  slip  on  the  voluminous  mantle  of  one  of 
the  old  fathers,  and  having  purloined  the  gray  beard  of  another, 
endeavored  to  look  exceedingly  wise  ;  but  the  smirking  common- 
place of  his  countenance  set  at  naught  all  the  trappings  of  wis- 
dom. One  sickly-looking  gentleman  was  busied  embroidering 
a  very  flimsy  garment  with  gold  thread  drawn  out  of  several  old 
court-dresses  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Another  had 
trimmed  himself  magnificently  from  an  illuminated  manuscript, 
had  stuck  a  nosegay  in  his  bosom,  culled  from  ''  The  Paradise 
of  Daintie  Devices,"  and  having  put  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  hat  on 
one  side  of  his  head,  strutted  olf  with  an  exquisite  air  of  vulgar 
elegance.  A  third,  who  was  but  of  puny  dimensions,  had  bol- 
stered himself  out  lu-avely  with  the  spoils  from  several  obscure 
tracts  of  philosophy,  so  that  he  had  a  V(!ry  imposing  front,  hut 
lie  was  lamentably  tattered  in  rear,  and  I  perceived  that  he  had 
patched  iiis  small-clothes  with  scraps  of  parchment  from  a  Latin 
author. 

There  were  some  well-dressed  gentlemen,  it  is  true,  who  only 
helped  themselves  to  a  gem  or  so,  which  sparkled  among  their 
own  ornaments,  without  eclipsing  them.  Some,  too,  seemed 
to  contemplate  the  costunuis  of  the  old  writers,  merely  to  im- 
I)ih(*  tlieir  principles  of  taste,  and  to  catch  their  air  and  spirit; 
hut  1  txrieve  to  say,  that  too  many  were  apt  to  array  themselves, 
from  top  to  toe,  in  the  })atch-work  manner  I  have  mentioned. 
I  sliall  not  omit  to  speak   of  one  genius,  in  drab  breeches  and 


1 

j 

1  \\ 


U' 


I    I 


J 


■r 


^f!^ 


14= 


!i:;y 


t 


ii'lIP 


64 


TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


gaiters,  and  an  Arcadian  hat,  who  had  a  violent  propensity  to 
the  pastoral,  but  whose  rural  wanderings  had  been  confined  to 
the  classic  haunts  of  Primrose  Hill,  and  the  solitudes  of  the 
Regent's  Park.  He  had  decked  himself  in  wreaths  and  ribbons 
from  all  the  old  pastoral  poets,  and  hanging  his  head  on  one 
Bide,  went  about  with  a  fantastical,  Uick-a-daisical  air,  "•  bab- 
bling about  green  fields."  But  the  personage  that  most  struck 
my  attention,  was  a  pragmatical  old  gentleman,  in  clerical 
robes,  with  a  remarkably  large  and  square,  but  bald  head. 
He  entered  the  room  wheezing  and  puffing,  elbowed  his  way 
through  the  throng,  with  a  look  of  sturdy  self-confidence,  and 
having  laid  hands  upon  a  thick  Greek  quarto,  clapped  it 
upon  his  head,  and  swept  majestically  away  in  a  formidable 
frizzled  wig. 

In  the  height  of  this  literary  masquerade,  a  cry  suddenly 
resounded  from  every  side,  of  "  thieves  !  thieves  !  "  I  looked, 
and  lo !  the  portraits  about  the  walls  became  animated  !  The 
old  autliors  thrust  out  first  a  houd,  then  a  shoulder,  from  the 
canvas,  looked  down  curiously,  for  an  instant,  upon  the  motley 
throng,  and  then  descended,  with  fury  in  their  eyes,  to  claim 
their  rifled  property.  The  scene  of  scampering  and  hubbub 
that  ensued  baffles  all  description.  The  unhappy  culprits 
endeavored  in  vain  to  escape  with  their  plunder.  On  one 
side  might  be  seen  half-a-dozen  old  monks,  stripping  a  modern 
professor ;  on  another,  there  was  sad  devastation  carried  into  the 
ranks  of  modern  dramatic  writers.  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 
side  by  side,  raged  round  the  field  lik;  Castor  and  Pollux,  and 
sturdy  Ben  Jonson  enacted  more  wonders  than  when  a  volun- 
teer with  the  army  in  Flanders.  As  to  the  dapper  little  com- 
piler of  farragos,  mentioned  some  time  since,  he  had  arrayed 
himself  in  as  many  patelies  and  colors  as  Harlcfpiin,  and 
there  was  as  fierce  a  contention  of  dahnants  rJ)out  him,  as 
about  the  dead  body  of  T^troclus.  I  was  grieved  to  see  many 
men,  to  whom  I  had  been  accustomed  to  look  up  with  awe  and 
reverence,  fain  to  steal  off  with  scarce  a  rag  to  cover  thoir 
nakedness.  Just  then  mj'  eye  was  caught  by  the  pragmatical 
old  gentleman  in  the  Greek  grizzled  wig,  vho  was  scrambling 
away  in  sore  affright  with  half  a  score  of  autliors  in  full  cry 
after  him.  They  were  close  upon  his  haunches  ;  in  a  twinkling 
off  went  his  wig ;  at  every  turn  some  strip  of  raiment  was 
peeled  away  ;  until  in  a  few  moments,  from  liis  domineering 
pomp,  he  shrunk  into  a  little  pursy,  "  chopped  bald  shot,"  and 
made  his  exit  with  only  u  few  tags  and  rags  fluttering  at  his 
back. 


ity  to 
ed  to 
3f  the 
bbons 
n  one 
bab- 
struck 
erical 
head, 
way 
aud 
)od  it 
dable 


u 
_l 
1- 
(/) 
< 
o 

cr 
o 
in 

Q 


i;Sl^l 


I'M 


i, 


I  { 


I,,  p 


I  . 


There  was 
learned  Thebi 
which  broke 
were  at  an  en 
The  old  autli 
hung  in  shad( 
myself  wide 
of  bookworn 
the  dream  hi 
never  before 
to  the  ears  of 

The  librarii 
I  had  a  card  < 
but  I  soon  fo 
serve,"  subje 
to  hunt  tlier( 
word,  I  stooc 
glad  to  make 
pack  of  authi 


On  a  soft 
an  excursior 
and  poetiea 
proud  old  p 
irregular  wa 
the  brow  of 
and  looks  d( 

On  this  n 
kind  M'hich 
peranient,  fi 
quote  poetr 
luaguKicent 
I  passed  wi 


A   ROYAL    rOET. 


65 


Thoro  was  something  so  ludicrous  in  the  catastrophe  of  this 
leivniod  Theban,  that  I  burst  into  an  immoderate  fit  of  laughter, 
which  broke  the  whole  illusion.  The  tumult  and  the  scuffle 
were  at  an  end.  Tlie  chamber  resumed  its  usual  appearance. 
The  old  authors  shrunk  back  into  their  picture-frames,  and 
hung  in  shadowy  solemnity  along  the  walls.  In  short,  I  found 
myself  wide  awake  in  my  corner,  with  the  whole  assemblage 
of  bookworms  gazing  at  me  with  astonishment.  Nothing  of 
the  dream  had  been  real  but  my  burst  of  laughter,  a  sound 
never  before  heard  in  that  grave  sanctuary,  and  so  abhorrent 
to  the  ears  of  wisdom,  as  to  electrify  the  fraternity. 

The  librarian  now  stepped  up  to  me,  and  demandec  whether 
I  had  a  card  of  admission.  At  first  I  did  not  comprehend  him, 
but  I  soon  found  that  the  library  was  a  kind  of  literarj'  "  pre- 
serve," subject  to  game  laws,  and  that  no  one  must  presume 
to  hunt  there  without  special  license  and  permission.  In  a 
word,  I  stood  convicted  of  being  an  arrant  poacher,  and  was 
jrlad  to  make  a  precipitate  retreat,  lest  I  should  have  a  whole 
pack  of  authors  let  loose  upon  me. 


A  ROYAL  POET. 


Though  your  body  be  confined 

And  Hoft  love  a  jirlHOuer  boupr', 
Yet  the  beauty  of  your  mind 
Neither  check  nor  chain  hath  found. 
hoo\t.  out  nobly,  then,  and  dure 
Even  the  fetters  that  you  wear.  —  Fletchbb. 

On  a  soft  sunny  morning  in  the  genial  month  of  INIaj',  I  made 
an  excursion  to  Windsor  Castle.  It  is  a  place  full  of  storied 
and  poetical  associations.  The  very  external  aspect  of  the 
proud  old  pile  is  enough  to  inspire  high  thought.  It  rears  its 
irregular  walls  and  massive  towers,  like  a  mural  crown  round 
the  brow  of  a  lofty  ridge,  waves  its  royal  banner  in  the  clouds, 
and  looks  down  with  a  lordly  air  upon  the  surrounding  world. 

On  this  morning,  the  weather  was  of  that  voluptuous  vernal 
kind  which  calls  forth  all  the  latent  romance  of  a  man's  tem- 
perament, filling  his  mind  with  music,  and  disposing  him  to 
quote  poetry  and  dream  of  beauty.  In  wandering  through  the 
niagiiiriccnt  saloons  and  long  echoing  galleries  of  the  castle, 
i  passed  with  indifi'ereuce  by  whole  rows  of  portraits  of  war 


If  :  it 


66 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


riors  and  statesmen,  bin  lingered  in  tlie  chamber  where  hang 
the  likenesses  of  the  beauties  which  graced  the  gay  court  of 
Charles  the  Second ;  and  as  I  gazed  upon  them,  depicted  with 
amorous  half-dishevelled  tresses,  and  llie  sleepy  eye  of  love,  I 
blessed  the  pencil  of  Sir  Peter  Lely,  which  had  thus  enabled  me 
to  bask  in  the  redectcd  rays  of  beauty.  In  traversing  also  the 
"  large  green  courts,"  with  sunshine  beaming  on  the  gray  walls 
and  glancing  along  the  velvet  turf,  my  mind  was  engrossed 
with  the  image  of  tlic  tender,  the  gallant,  but  hapless  Surrey, 
and  his  account  of  his  loiterings  about  them  iu  his  stripling  days, 
when  enamoured  of  the  Lady  Geraldine  — 

"With  eyes  cast  up  unto  the  maiden's  tower, 
With  easie  sighs,  such  as  rueu  draw  iu  love." 


r  ,t. 


!    ■. 


m 


m 


In  this  mood  of  mere  poetical  susceptibility,  I  visited  the 
ancient  keep  of  the  castle,  where  James  the  First  of  Scotland, 
the  pride  and  theme  of  Scottish  poets  and  historians,  was  for 
many  years  of  his  youth  detained  a  prisoner  of  state.  It  is  a 
large  gray  tower,  that  has  stood  the  brunt  of  ages,  and  is  still 
in  good  preservation.  It  stands  on  a  mound  which  elevates  it 
above  the  other  parts  of  the  castle,  ami  ii  great  Uight  of  steps 
leads  to  the  interior.  In  the  armory,  a  Gothic  hall,  furnished 
with  weapons  of  various  kinds  and  agi's,  I  was  shown  a  coat 
of  armor  hanging  against  the  wall,  which  had  once  belonged  to 
James.  Hence  I  was  conducted  up  a  staircase  to  a  suite  of 
apartments  of  faded  magnificence,  hung  with  storied  tapestry, 
which  formed  his  prison,  and  the  scene  of  that  passionate  and 
fanciful  amour,  which  has  woven  into  the  web  of  his  story  the 
magical  hues  of  poetry  and  fiction. 

The  whole  history  of  this  amiable  but  inifortunate  prince  is 
highly  romantic.  At  the  tender  age  of  elu-vcn,  he  was  sent' 
from  home  by  his  father,  Kobert  III.,  and  destined  for  the 
French  court,  to  be  reared  under  the  eye  of  the  French  mon- 
arch, secure  from  the  treachery  and  danger  that  surrouuilfd 
the  royal  house  of  Scotland,  JL  was  liis  mishap,  in  the  couim. 
of  his  voyage,  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  English,  and  he  wjuj 
detained  prisoner  by  Henry  IV.,  notwithstanding  that  a  truce  ex- 
isted between  the  two  countries. 

The  intelligence  of  his  capture,  coming  in  the  train  of  many 
sori'ows  and  disasters,  proved  fatal  to  Iiis  iinhap|)y  father. 

''The  news,"  we  are  tohl,  "was  brought  to^  him  while  at 
supper,  and  did  so  overwhelm  him  with  grief,  that  he  was  almost 
veady  to  give  up  the  ghost  into  the  hands  of  the  servantji  that, 


■  liucbaiiHii. 


1  " 


A   TiOYAL    POET. 


67 


attended  him.  But  being  carried  to  his  lied-chamber,  he  ab- 
stained from  all  food,  and  in  tliree  days  died  of  hunger  and 
grief,  at  Rothesay."  ' 

.James  was  detained  in  captivity  a])ove  eighteen  years ;  but 
though  deprived  of  personal  liberty,  ho  was  treated  with  the 
respect  due  to  his  rank.  Care  was  taken  to  instruct  him  in  all 
the  l)ranche8  of  useful  knowledge  cultivated  at  that  period,  and 
to  give  him  those  mental  and  personal  accomplishments  deemed 
proper  for  a  prince.  Perhaps  in  this  resi)ect,  his  imprisonment 
was  an  advantage,  as  it  enabled  him  to  apply  himself  the  more 
exclusively  to  his  improvement,  and  quietly  to  imbibe  that  rich 
fund  of  knowledge,  and  to  ciierish  those  elegant  tastes,  which 
have  given  such  a  lustre  to  his  memoi-y.  The  picture  drawn 
of  him  in  early  life,  by  the  Scottish  historians,  is  highly  capti- 
vating, and  seems  rather  the  deseription  of  a  hero  of  romance, 
than  of  a  character  in  real  history.  lie  was  well  li'arnt,  we  are 
told,  ''  to  light  with  the  s;ord,  to  joust,  to  tournuy,  to  wrestle, 
to  sing  and  dance  ;  he  was  an  expert  mediciner,  right  crafty  in 
playing  both  of  lute  and  harp,  and  sundry  otluir  instruments  of 
music,  and  was  expert  in  grauunar,  oratory,  and  poetry."  * 

With  this  combination  of  manly  and  delicate  accomplish- 
ments, fitting  him  to  shine  both  in  active  and  elegant  life,  and 
calculated  to  give  him  an  i'll'iisc  relish  for  joyous  existence,  it 
must  have  l)een  a  severe  tiial.  in  an  age  of  bustle  and  chivalry, 
to  pass  the  sitring-lime  of  his  years  in  monotonous  captivity. 
It  was  the  good  fortune  of  .James,  however,  to  be  gifted  with  a 
powerful  poetic  fancy,  and  to  be  visited  in  his  i)rison  by  the 
choicest  inspirations  of  the  muse.  Some  minds  corrode,  and 
grow  inactive,  under  tlie  loss  of  [)ersonal  lilierty  ;  others  grow 
morbid  and  irritable  ;  but  it  is  the  nature  of  the  poet  to  become 
tender  and  imaginative  in  tiie  loneliness  of  conlinemcnt.  He 
banqu'ts  upon  the  honey  of  ills  own  thoughts,  and,  like  the 
captivt  bird,  pours  forth  his  soul  in  melody. 


■  lil 


Have  you  not  neeii  the  nightingale, 

A  pilcrini  codpM  into  a  cuac. 
How  doth  Kill'  ohiint  her  wonlod  tale, 

In  that  her  loiii'ly  lieiniitaijo! 

Even  thcio  hor  cliarniiiiLr  inclmly  doth  prove 
That  all  licr  biniL'lirt  art;  Ui'ch,  la-r  raj,'o  a  i^rove.' 


Indeed,  it  is  the  divine  attribute  of  the  imagination,  that  it 
Is  inepressii>le,  unconfinable  ;  that  when  the  real  world  is  shut 


■  liuubaiiHU.       >  liiiUuudtiD'a  traualatlon  of  lieclor  Uuyce.       >  Uogur  L.'Ebtrungc. 


in   ! 

Ill 


68 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


out,  it  can  create  a  world  for  itself,  and,  wfth  necromantic 
power,  can  conjure  up  glorious  shapes  and  forms,  and  bri\liaiit 
visions,  to  make  solitude  populous,  and  irradiate  the  gloom  of 
the  dungeon.  Such  was  the  world  of  pomp  and  pageant  that 
lived  round  Tasso  in  his  dismal  cell  at  Ferrara,  whon  he  con- 
ceived  the  splendid  scenes  of  his  Jerusalem  ;  and  we  may  con- 
sider the  "King's  Quair," »  composed  by  James  during  his 
captivity  at  Windsor,  as  another  of  those  beautiful  breaicings 
forth  of  the  soul  from  the  restraint  and  gloom  of  the  prison- 
house. 

The  subject  of  the  poem  is  his  love  for  the  lady  Jane  Beau- 
fort, daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Somerset,  and  a  princess  of  tlic 
blood-royal  of  England,  of  whom  he  became  enamoured  in  the 
course  of  his  captivity.  What  gives  it  a  peculiar  value,  is.  Hint 
It  may  be  considered  a  transcript  of  the  royal  hard's  true  fool 
ino-s,  and  the  story  of  his  real  loves  and  fortunes.  It  is  not 
often  tliat  sovcrei'|ns  write  poetry,  or  that  poets  deal  in  fact. 
It  is  gratifying  to  the  pride  of  a  common  man,  to  find  a  mon- 
arch thus  suing,  as  it  were,  for  admission  into  his  closet,  and 
seelcing  to  win  his  favor  by  administering  to  his  pleasures.  It 
is  a  proof  of  the  honest  equality  of  intellectual  competition, 
which  strips  ofif  all  the  trappings  of  factitious  dignity,  brings 
the  candidate  down  to  a  level  with  his  fellow-men,  and  obliges 
him  to  depend  on  his  own  native  powers  for  distinction.  It  is 
curious,  too,  to  get  at  the  history  of  a  monarch's  lieart,  and  to 
find  the  simple  affections  of  human  nature  tlirobbing  under  the 
ermine.  But  James  had  learnt  to  be  a  poet  l)efore  he  was  a 
king ;  he  was  schooled  in  adversity,  and  roared  in  tiie  company 
of  his  own  thoughts.  Monarchs  have  seldom  time  to  parley 
with  their  hearts,  or  to  meditate  their  minds  into  poetry  ;  and 
had  James  been  brought  up  amidst  the  adulation  and  gayety  of 
a  court,  we  should  never,  in  all  probability,  have  had  such  a 
poem  as  t^3  Quair. 

I  have  been  particularly  intorosted  by  those  parts  of  the  poem 
which  breathe  his  immediate  thoughts  concerning  his  situation, 
or  which  are  connected  with  tlie  ai)artnient  in  the  Tower.  They 
have  thus  a  personal  and  local  charm,  and  are  given  with  such 
circumstantial  truth,  as  to  maki;  the  reader  present  with  the  .  p 
live  in  his  prison,  and  the  companion  of  his  meditations. 

Such  is  the  account  which  he  gives  of  his  weariness  of  spirit, 
and  of  the  incident  whicli  (irst  sugixested  the  idea  of  writing  the 
poem.     It  was  the  still  niid-watcli  ot  a  clear  moonlight  night; 


>  C^uab-  i«n  ota  term  for  DooV. 


A   ItOYAt   POET. 


dd 


tha  stars,  he  says,  were  twinkling  as  fire  in  tlie  high  vault 
of  heaven,  and  "Cynthia  rinsing  her  golden  locks  in  Aqua- 
rius "  —  he  lay  in  bed  wakeful  and  restless,  and  took  a  book  to 
bc<iiiile  the  tedious  hours.  The  book  he  chose  was  Boetius' 
Consolations  of  Philosophy,  a  work  popular  among  the  writers 
of  tlwt  (lay,  and  which  had  been  translated  by  his  great  proto- 
type Chaucer.  From  the  high  eulogium  in  which  he  indulges, 
it  ifl  evident  this  was  one  of  his  favorite  volumes  while  in 
prison ;  and  indeed,  it  is  an  admirable  text-book  for  meditation 
under  adversity.  It  is  the  legacy  of  a  noble  and  enduring 
spirit,  purified  by  sorrow  and  suffering,  bequeathing  to  its  suc- 
cessors in  calamity  the  maxims  of  sweet  morality,  and  the  trains 
of  eloquent  but  simple  reasoning,  by  which  it  was  enabled  to 
bear  up  against  the  various  ills  of  life.  It  is  a  talisman  which 
(be  unfortunate  may  treasure  up  in  his  bosom,  or,  like  the  good 
l^ing  James,  lay  upon  nis  nightly  pillow. 

After  closing  tlie  volume,  he  turns  its  contents  over  in  his 
mind,  and  gradually  falls  into  a  fit  of  musing  on  the  fickleness 
of  fortune,  the  vicissitudes  of  his  own  life,  and  the  evils  that 
bad  overtaken  him  even  in  his  tender  youth.  Suddenly  he 
bears  the  bell  ringing  to  mati;is,  but  its  sound  chiming  in  with 
bis  melancholy  fancies,  seems  to  him  like  a  voice  exhorting  him 
to  wriie  his  story.  In  the  spirit  of  poetic  errantry,  ho  ileter- 
mines  to  comply  witii  this  intimation ;  he  therefore  takes  pen 
ill  band,  makes  with  it  a  sign  of  the  cross,  to  implore  a  bene- 
tliction,  and  sallies  forth  into  tlie  fairy  land  of  poetry.  There 
iri  sonu'tliing  extremely  fanciful  in  all  this,  and  it  is  interesting 
jis  furnisliing  a  striking  and  beautiful  instance  of  the  simple 
BKiuiier  in  which  whole  trains  of  poetical  thought  are  sometimes 
awakened,  and  literary  enterprises  suggested  to  the  mind. 

In  the  course  of  his  poem,  he  more  than  once  bewails  the 
jiL'Culiar  hardness  of  his  fate,  thus  doomed  to  lonely  and  inac- 
live  life,  and  shut  up  from  the  freedom  and  pleasure  of  the 
'.v<jrl(l,  in  which  the  meanest  animal  indulges  unrestrained. 
There  is  a  sweetness,  however,  in  his  very  complaints ;  they 
are  the  lamentations  of  an  amiable  and  social  spirit,  at  being 
denied  the  indulgence  of  its  kind  and  generous  propensities ; 
there  is  nothing  in  them  harsh  or  exaggerated ;  the3'  flow  with 
a  natural  and  touching  pathos,  and  are  perhaps  rendered  more 
touching  by  their  simple  brevity.  They  contrast  finely  with 
those  elaborate  and  iterated  repinings  which  we  sometimes  meet 
with  in  poetry,  the  effusions  of  morbid  minds,  sickening  under 
miseries  of  their  own  creating,  and  venting  their  bitterness  upon 
tui  unoffending  world.      James  speaks  of  his  privations  with 


S',, 


!i 


if    'h 


:! 


I 


70 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK. 


I  ^i 


acute  sensibility ;  but  having  mentioned  them,  passes  on,  as  if 
his  minly  mind  disdained  to  brood  over  unavoidable  calaraitiee. 
When  such  a  spirit  breaks  forth  into  complaint,  however  brief, 
we  are  aware  how  great  must  be  the  suffering  that  extorts  the 
murmur.  We  sympathize  with  James,  a  romantic,  active,  and 
accomplished  prince,  cut  off  in  the  iustihood  of  youth  from  all 
the  enterprise,  the  noble  uses  and  vigorous  delights  of  life,  as 
we  do  with  Milton,  alive  to  all  the  beauties  of  nature  and  gloritfs 
of  art,  when  he  breatlies  forth  brief  but  deep-toned  lameuta- 
tions  over  his  perpetual  blindness. 

Had  not  James  evinced  a  deficiency  of  poetic  artifice,  we 
might  almost  have  suspected  that  these  lowerings  of  gloomy 
reflection  were  meant  as  preparative  to  the  brightest  scene  of 
his  story,  and  to  contrast  with  that  refulgence  of  light  and  love- 
liness, that  exhilarating  accompaniment  of  bird,  and  song,  und 
foliage,  and  flower,  and  all  the  revel  of  the  year,  with  which  lie 
ushers  in  the  lady  of  his  heart.  It  is  this  scene  in  particular 
which  throws  all  the  magic  of  romance  about  the  old  castle 
keep.  He  had  risen,  he  says,  at  day-break,  according  to  cus- 
tom, to  escape  from  the  dreary  meditations  of  a  sleepless  pillow. 
"  Bewailing  in  his  chamber  thus  alone,"  despairing  of  all  joy 
and  remedy,  *' for,  tired  of  thought,  and  wo-begone,"  he  had 
wandered  to  the  window,  to  indulge  the  captive's  miserable 
solace  of  gazing  wistfully  upon  the  worhl  from  which  he  is  ex- 
cluded. The  window  looked  forth  upon  a  small  garden  which 
lay  at  the  foot  of  the  tower.  It  was  a  quiet,  sheltered  spot, 
adorned  with  arbors  and  green  alleys,  and  protected  from  tb« 
passing  gaze  by  trees  and  hawthorn  hedges. 


Now  wua  there  made,  fast  by  the  tower's  wall 
A  gurdcD  faire,  and  in  the  coroera  set, 

Ad  arbour  green  with  wandia  long  and  small 
Railed  about,  and  so  with  leaves  beset 

Was  all  the  place,  and  hawthorn  hedges  knet. 
That  lyf '  was  none,  walkyug  there  forbye, 
That  might  within  scarce  any  wight  espye. 


Bo  thick  the  branches  and  the  leves  grene, 
Beehaded  all  the  alleys  that  there  were, 

And  midst  of  every  arbour  might  bo  sene 
The  Blmrpe,  grune,  swete  juniper. 

Growing  so  fairo  with  brunchcB  here  and  there, 
That  !irt  It  seerat'd  to  a  lyf  without, 
The  boughs  did  spruud  the  arbour  all  about. 


'  f'i//t  person. 


A    ^OYAL    POET. 


n 


And  on  tho  amnll  groen  twiatli '  let 

Tho  lytel  Hwoto  nyKhtingaIca,  and  lung, 
Bo  loudiiiid  clvro,  tho  hyiiinlit  coDHOcrato 

Of  IovIh  uho,  nuw  Hoft,  now  loud  nmong, 
Thiit  nil  tliL>  gnrdun  and  tho  wallis  rung 

ItyKbt  of  tholr  song  — 

NoTK.— The  language  of  ihu  qnotationn  U  generally  modernized. 

It  was  llie  uiontli  of  May,  when  every  thing  was  in  bloom, 
and  he  interprets  the  song  of  the  nightingale  into  the  language 
of  his  cuamoured  feeling : — 

Worship  nil  ye  that  lovers  bo  this  May ; 

For  of  your  bliss  tho  knionds  nro  begun, 
And  sing  with  us,  nwuy,  winter,  away, 

Comp,  summer,  come,  the  sweet  season  and  sun. 


As  he  gazes  on  the  scene,  and  listens  to  ♦he  notes  of  the 
birds,  he  gradually  relapses  into  one  of  those  tender  and  undefiu- 
able  reveries,  which  fill  the  youthful  bosom  in  this  delicious 
season.  He  wonders  what  this  love  may  be,  of  which  he  has 
so  often  read,  and  which  thus  seems  breathed  forth  in  the 
quickening  breath  of  May,  and  melting  all  nature  into  ecstasy 
and  song.  If  it  really  be  so  great  a  felicity,  and  if  it  be  a  boon 
thus  generally  dispensed  to  the  most  insignificant  beings,  why 
is  he  alone  cut  off  from  its  enjoyments? 

Oft  would  I  think,  O  Lord,  what  may  this  be, 

Thnt  love  is  of  nuch  noble  myght  and  kynde? 
Loving  his  folkc,  and  such  prosptritee, 

Is  it  of  him,  as  we  iu  books  do  tlnd ; 
Mny  ho  ouro  hortfs  fictten  2  and  unbynd: 
Hath  he  (ii)oii  cure  hertea  such  maistrye? 
Or  is  nil  thU  but  fcyuit  fniitaHyu? 
For  glff  111'  he  of  so  grete  excellence 

That  he  of  every  wijjht  hath  care  and  charge, 
What  have  I  gllt^  to  him,  or  done  offence, 

That  I  am  thral'd  and  blrdia  go  nt  large? 


i.N! 


In  the  midst  of  his  musing,  as  he  casts  his  eye  downward, 
he  beholds  "  the  fairest  and  freshest  young  floure"  that  ever  he 
had  seen.  It  is  the  lovely  Lady  Jane,  walking  in  the  garden  to 
enjoy  the  beauty  of  that  "fresh  May  morrowe."  Breaking 
thus' suddenly  upon  his  sight  in  the  moment  of  loneliness  and 
excited  susceptibility,  she  at  once  captivates  the  fancy  of  the 

'  Twittis,  small  boughs  or  twij^a.  *  Setten,  Incline. 

*  (Jilt,  what  injury  have  I  done,  etc. 


I   Kl 


n 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK. 


romantic  prince,    and   becomes   the   object  of  his  wandering 
wishes,  the  sovereign  of  his  ideal  worid. 

There  is  in  this  charming  scene  an  evident  resemblance  to 
the  early  part  of  Chaucer's  Kniglit's  Tale,  where  Palamon  aud 
Arcite  fall  in  love  with  Emilia,  whom  they  see  walking  in  the 
garden  of  their  prison.  Perhaps  the  similarity  of  the  actual 
fact  to  the  incident  which  he  had  read  in  Chaucer,  may  have 
induced  James  to  dwell  on  it  in  his  poem.  His  description  of 
the  Lady  Jane  is  given  in  the  picturesqu;j  and  minute  manner 
r^  his  master,  and  being,  doubtless,  taken  from  the  life,  is  a 
fjerfect  portrait  of  a  beauty  of  that  day.  lie  dwells  with  the 
fondness  of  a  lover  on  every  article  of  her  apparel,  from  the  net 
of  pearl,  splendent  with  emeralds  and  sai)phires,  that  confined 
her  golden  hair,  even  to  the  "  goodly  chaine  of  small  orfev- 
erye  "  *  about  her  neck,  whereby  there  hung  a  ruby  in  shape  of 
a  heart,  that  seemed,  he  says,  like  a  spark  of  lire  burning  upon 
her  white  bosom.  Her  dress  of  white  tissue  was  looped  up,  to 
enable  her  to  walk  with  more  freedom.  She  was  accompanied 
by  two  female  attendants,  and  about  her  sported  a  little  hound 
decorated  with  bells,  probably  the  small  Italian  hound,  of 
exquisite  symmetry,  which  was  a  parlor  favorite  and  pet  among 
the  fashionable  dames  or  ancient  times.  James  closes  his 
description  by  a  burst  of  general  eulogium : 

In  her  wae  youth,  beauty  with  humble  port, 

Bounty,  rlcheBHe,  and  womanly  feature, 
Ood  better  knows  than  ray  pun  can  report, 

Wisdom,  largesse,'  estate,'  and  cunning*  sure. 
In  every  point  so  guided  her  measure, 

In  word,  iu  deed,  in  shape,  in  countenance, 

That  nature  might  no  more  her  child  advance. 

The  departure  of  the  Lady  Jano  from  the  garden  puts  an 
end  to  this  trau^^rnt  riot  of  the  heart.  With  her  departs  the 
amorous  illusion  t^'at  had  shed  a  tempoi-ai'y  charm  over  the 
scene  of  his  captivity,  and  he  relapses  into  loneliness,  now  ren- 
det'otl  tenfold  more  intolerable  by  this  passing  beam  of  unat- 
Lajuable  beauty.  Thi'ough  the  long  and  weaiy  day  he  repines 
at  his  unhappy  lot,  and  when  evening  approaches  and  Phd'bus, 
as  he  beautifully  expi-esses  it,  had  "  bade  farewell  to  every  leaf 
and  flower,"  he  still  lingei-s  at  the  window,  and,  laying  his  head 
upon  the  cold  stone,  gives  vent  to  a  mingled  flow  of  love  and 
sorrow,  until,  gradually  lulled  by  the  mute  melancholy  of  the 


*  WruuglUKold.     s  Z<My«M«,  Iwttnty.     *  iMa^«,  dlguity.     *  Cunkiuy,  liimii^ao.i 


A   ROYAL  POET. 


78 


twilight  hour,  he  lapses,  "half-sleeping,  half-swoon,"  into  a 
vision,  which  occupies  the  remainder  of  the  poem,  and  in  which 
is  allegorically  shadowed  out  the  history  of  his  passion. 

When  ho  wakt  from  his  trance,  he  rises  from  his  stony  pil- 
low, and  pacing  his  apartment  full  of  dreary  reflections,  ques- 
tions his  spirit  whither  it  has  been  wandering ;  whether,  indeed, 
all  that  has  passed  before  his  dreaming  fancy  has  been  conjured 
up  by  preceding  circumstances,  or  whether  it  is  a  vision  intended 
to  comfort  and  assure  him  in  his  despondency.  If  the  latter, 
he  prays  that  some  token  may  be  sent  to  confirm  the  promise 
of  happier  days,  given  him  in  his  slumbers. 

Snddonly  a  turtle-dove  of  the  purest  whiteness  comes  flying 
in  at  the  window,  and  alights  upon  his  hand,  bearing  in  her  bill 
a  l)ranch  of  red  gilliflower,  on  the  leaves  of  which  is  written  in 
letters  of  gold,  the  following  sentence : 

Awake!  awake!  I  bring,  lover,  I  bring 

The  newiH  glad,  that  bllHHful  is  and  sure, 
Of  thy  comfort;  now  langh,  and  play,  ard  sing, 

For  in  the  heaven  dccretit  is  thy  cure. 

IIo  receives  the  binnch  with  mingled  hope  and  dread ;  reads 
it  with  lapturc,  and  this  he  says  was  the  first  token  of  his  suc- 
ccodiii};  happiness.  Whether  this  is  a  mere  poetic  fiction,  or 
wliotlur  the  Lady  Jane  did  actually  send  him  a  token  of  her 
t'avor  ill  this  romantic  way,  remains  to  be  determined  according 
to  tiio  faith  or  fancy  of  tiic  reader.  Ho  concludes  his  poem  by 
intimating  that  the  promise  conve3'ed  in  the  vision,  and  by  the 
tlowo!',  is  fulfilled  by  his  being  restored  to  lihci'ty,  and  made 
li!ip[)y  in  the  iKxssession  of  the  sovereign  of  his  heart. 

Sucii  is  the  poetical  account  given  by  James  of  his  love  ad« 
VL'iituies  in  Windsor  Castle.  How  much  of  it  is  absolute  fact, 
and  how  much  the  embellishment  of  fancy,  it  is  fruitless  to  con- 
jecture; let  us  not,  however,  reject  any  romantic  incident 
lis  incompatible  with  real  life,  but  let  us  sometimes  take 
a  poet  at  his  word.  I  have  noticed  merely  those  parts  of 
t!ic  poem  immediately  connected  with  the  tower,  and  have 
piissinl  over  a  large  part  written  in  the  allegorical  vein,  so 
luuch  cultivated  at  that  day.  The  language  of  course  is 
(Hiiiint  and  antiquated,  so  that  the  beauty  of  many  of  its  golden 
phrases  will  scaivelv  I  "  |)eireived  at  the  present  day  ;  but  if  is 
impossible  not  to  in  cliarmed  with  the  genuine  sontimeia  the 
il.'li<ihtful  artlessness  and  urbanity,  which  prevail  throujjliout  it. 
Tiie'^descriptions  of  Natun?,  too,  witli  which  it  is  embellished, 


ii'U 


I 


'Hiii 


ill 


u 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


w 


are  given  with  a  truth,  a  discrimination,  and  a  fresluicss,  wortliy 
of  the  most  cultivated  periods  of  tlio  arts. 

As  an  amatory  poem,  it  is  edifying,  in  these  days  of  coarser 
thinkiu'T,  to  notice  the  nature,  refinement,  and  exquisite  delicacy 
which  *)ervade  it,  banishing  every  gross  thought,  or  immoih-st 
expression,  and  presenting  female  loveliness  clothed  in  all  its 
chivalrous  attributes  of  almost  supernatural  purity  and  grace 

James  flourished  nearly  about  the  time  of  Chaucer  and  Gower, 
and  was  evidently  an  a-'niirer  and  studier  of  their  writiiii;s. 
Indeed,  in  one  of  his  stanzas  he  acknowledges  them  as  liis 
masters,  and  in  some  parts  of  his  poem  we  find  trafces  of  simi- 
larity  to  their  productions,  more  especially  to  those  of  Chaucer. 
There  are  always,  however,  general  features  of  resemblance  in 
the  works  of  contemporary  authors,  which  are  not  so  mucii  Ixn-- 
rowed  from  each  other  as  from  the  times.  Writers,  like  bees, 
toll  their  sweets  in  the  wide  world ;  they  incorporate  with  tlieir 
own  conceptions  the  anecdotes  and  thoughts  current  in  socic^ty, 
and  thus  eacli  generation  has  some  features  in  common, 
characteristic  of  the  age  in  which  it  lived.  James  belongs 
to  one  of  the  most  brilliant  eras  of  our  literary  history, 
and  establishes  the  claims  of  his  country  to  a  participation  in 
its  primitive  honors.  Whilst  a  small  cluster  of  Englisli  writers 
are  constantly  cited  as  the  fathers  of  our  verse,  the  name  of 
their  great  Scottish  compeer  is  apt  to  be  passed  over  in  silence; 
but  he  is  evidently  worthy  of  being  enrolled  in  that  little  con- 
stellation of  remote,  but  never-failing  luminaries,  who  shine  in 
the  highest  firmament  of  literature,  and  who,  like  morning  stars, 
sang  together  at  the  bright  dawning  of  British  poesy. 

Such  of  my  readers  as  may  not  be  familiar  with  Scottish  his- 
tory, (though  the  manner  in  which  it  has  of  late  been  woven 
with  captivating  fiction  has  made  it  a  universal  study,)  may  be 
curious  to  learn  something  of  the  subsequent  history  of  James, 
and  the  fortunes  of  his  love.  His  passion  for  the  Lady  Jane, 
as  it  was  the  solace  of  his  captivity,  so  it  facilitated  his  release, 
it  being  imagined  by  the  Court,  that  a  connection  with  the 
blood-royal  of  England  would  attach  him  to  its  own  interests. 
He  was  ultimately  restored  to  his  liberty  and  crown,  liavin" 
previously  espoused  the  Lady  Jane,  who  accompanied  him  to 
Scotland,  and  made  him  a  most  tender  and  devoted  wife. 

He  found  his  kingdom  in  great  confusion,  the  feudal  chief- 
tains having  taken  advanta^'c  of  (he  troul)IeH  and  irrejrularities 
of  a  long  niterregnura  to  strengtiien  themselves  in  their  pos- 
sessions, and  place  themselves  above  the  power  of  tin;  laws. 
James  sought  to  found  the  basis  of  his  power  in  the  aifections 


A   ROYAL   POET. 


76 


of  his  people.  He  attached  the  lower  orders  to  him  by  the 
reformation  of  abuses,  the  temperate  and  equable  administra- 
tion of  justice,  the  encouragement  of  the  arts  of  peace,  and  the 
promotion  of  every  thing  that  could  diffuse  comfort,  competency, 
and  innocent  enjoyment,  through  the  humblest  ranks  of  society. 
He  mingled  occasionally  among  the  common  people  in  disguise  ; 
visited  their  firesides  ;  entered  into  their  cares,  their  pursuits, 
and  tlieir  amusements  ;  informed  himself  of  the  mechanical  arts, 
and  how  they  could  best  be  patronized  and  improved ;  and  was 
thus  an  all-pervading  spirit,  watching  with  a  benevolent  eye 
over  the  meanest  of  his  subjects.  Having  in  this  generous 
manner  made  himself  strong  in  the  hearts  of  the  common  people, 
ho  turned  himself  to  curb  the  power  of  the  factious  nobility ; 
to  strip  them  of  those  dangerous  immunities  which  they  had 
usurped  ;  to  punish  such  as  had  been  guilty  of  flagrant  offences  ; 
and  to  bring  the  whole  into  proper  obedience  to  the  crown.  For 
some  time  tliey  bore  this  vvitli  outward  submission,  but  with 
secret  impatience  and  brooding  resentment.  A  conspiracy  was 
at  length  formed  against  his  life,  at  the  head  of  which  was  his 
own  uncle,  Robert  Stewart,  Earl  of  Athol,  who,  being  too  old 
himself  for  the  perpetration  of  the  deed  o  blood,  instigated  his 
grandson.  Sir  Robert  Stewart,  together  with  Sir  Roliert  Graham, 
and  otliers  of  less  note,  to  commit  the  deed.  They  broke  into 
his  bed-chamber  at  the  Dominican  convent  near  Perth,  where 
he  was  residing,  and  barbarously  nuirdored  him  by  oft-repeated 
wounds.  His  faithful  queen,  rushing  to  throw  her  tender  body 
between  him  and  the  sword,  was  twice  wounded  in  the  ineffec- 
tual attempt  to  shield  him  from  tlie  assassin  ;  and  it  was  not 
until  she  had  been  forcibly  torn  from  his  person,  that  the  murder 
was  accomplished. 

It  was  the  recollection  of  this  romantic  tale  of  former  times, 
and  of  the  golden  little  poem,  wiiich  had  its  birth-place  in  this 
tower,  that  made  me  visit  the  old  pile  with  more  than  common 
interest.  The  suit  of  armor  hanging  up  in  the  hall,  richly  gilt 
and  embellished,  as  if  to  tigure  in  the  tournay,  brought  the 
image  of  tlie  gallant  and  romantic  prince  vividly  before  my 
imagination.  1  paced  the  deserted  chambers  where  he  had 
coini)osed  his  i)oem  ;  I  leaned  upon  the  window,  and  endeav- 
ored to  persuade  myself  it  was  the  very  one  where  he  had 
been  visited  by  his  vision  ;  I  looked  out  upon  the  spot  where 
he  had  first  seen  the  Lady  Jane.  It  was  the  same  genial  and 
joyous  month :  the  birds  were  again  vying  with  each  other  in 
strains  of  liquid  melody :  every  thing  was  bursting  into  vegeta- 
tion, and  budding  forth  the  tender  promise  of  the  year.     Time, 


l+!  (5 


!    i.1: 


,!| 


76 


THE  SKETCn-BOOK. 


f : 


which  delights  to  ohliterato  the  sterner  memorials  of  human 
pride,  seems  to  have  passed  lightly  over  this  little  scene  of 
poetry  and  love,  and  to  have  withheld  his  desolating  hand. 
Several  centuries  have  gone  by,  yet  the  garden  still  flourishes 
at  the  foot  of  the  tower.  It  occupies  what  was  once  the  nioal 
of  tlie  keep,  and  though  some  pnrts  have  been  separated  oy 
dividing  walls,  yet  others  have  still  their  arbors  and  shaded 
wallis,  as  in  the  days  of  James ;  and  the  whole  is  sheltered, 
blooming,  and  retired.  There  is  a  charm  about  a  spot  th;it 
has  been  printed  by  the  footsteps  of  departed  beauty,  and  eon, 
secrated  by  the  inspirations  of  the  poet,  which  is  heighteiud, 
rather  than  impairocJ,  by  the  lapse  of  ages.  It  is,  indeed,  ilio 
gift  of  poetry,  to  hallow  every  place  in  which  it  moves;  lo 
breathe  round  nature  an  odor  more  exquisite  than  the  peifume 
of  the  rose,  and  to  shed  over  it  a  tint  more  magical  than  the 
blush  of  morning. 

Others  may  dwell  on  the  illustrious  deeds  of  James  as  a  war- 
rior and  a  legislator ;  but  I  have  delighted  to  view  him  merely  as 
the  companion  of  his  fellow-men,  the  benefactor  of  the  human 
heart,  stooping  from  his  high  estate  to  sow  the  sweet  flowers  of 
poetry  and  song  in  the  paths  of  common  life.  He  was  the  first 
to  cultivate  the  vigorous  and  hardy  plant  of  Scottish  genitis, 
which  has  since  been  so  prolific  of  the  most  wholesome  any 
highly  flavored  fruit.  He  carried  with  him  into  the  sterner  re- 
gions of  the  north,  all  the  fertilizing  arts  of  southern  refinemenf , 
He  did  every  thing  in  his  power  to  win  his  countrymen  to  the 
gay,  the  elegant,  and  gefttle  arts  which  soften  and  refine  tlic 
character  of  a  people,  and  wreathe  a  grace  round  Uie  loftines'i 
of  a  proud  and  warlike  spirit.  He  wrote  many  poems,  which, 
unfortunately  for  the  fulness  of  his  fame,  are  now  lost  to  tht 
world;  one,  which  is  still  preserved,  called  "Christ's  Kirk  of 
the  Green,"  shows  how  diligently  he  had  made  himself  ac- 
quainted with  the  rustic  sports  and  pastimes,  which  constitute 
such  a  source  of  kind  and  social  feeling  among  the  Scottish  peas- 
antry ;  and  with  what  simple  and  happy  humor  he  could  enter 
into  their  enjoyments.  He  contributed  greatly  to  improve  tlio 
national  music ;  and  traces  of  his  tender  sentiment  and  elegant 
taste  are  said  to  exist  in  those  witching  airs,  still  piped  amoiioj 
the  wild  mountains  and  lonely  glens  of  Scotland.  Ho  has  tluis 
coimected  his  image  with  wliatever  is  most  gracious  and  ondear- 
mg  in  the  national  character ;  he  has  embalmed  his  memory  in 
Bong,  and  floated  his  name  down  to  after-ages  in  the  rich  streams 
of  Scottish  melody.  'V\w  recollection  of  these  things  was  kin- 
dling at  my  heart,  as  I  paced  the  silent  scene  of  his  imprison- 


ment.    I  have 
nilorim  would 
iiioie  pootical  ( 
and  thi'  little  g 
loves  of  the  L 


TuKiiK   are 
actor  than  an 
few  wi-eks  at 
of  ono,  the  a; 
It  was  one  of 
fiucli  a  i)i'eii]i: 
inidst  of   a  c 
M-iUiin  its  coh 
nohle    jiciierai 
nioiiunuiiits  ol 
windows  dinii 
stained  glass, 
kninlits,  and 
tlioir   elRuies 
struck  with  s 
nil  niorial  wli 
in  tliia  temple 
The   congr 
of    rank   win 
furnished   wi 
their  arms  u 
wlio  filled  th 
and  of  the  p 
the  aisles. 

Tiie  servic 
had  a  snug 
ij;utst  at  all 
keenest  fox- 
hud  disabled 
*hii  hounds  t 


THE  COUNTRY  CHUTiCU. 


77 


oat 

■n- 

ed 

ed, 

i;it 


mont.  I  have  visited  Vaucluse  with  as  nuicli  enthusiasm  as  a 
|)il'j,rim  wonirl  visit  the  shrine  at  Loretto ;  but  I  have  never  felt 
iiioie  poetical  devotion  than  when  contemplating  the  old  towei 
and  the  liltlo  garden  at  Windsor,  and  musing  over  the  romantic 
loves  ol  the  Lady  Jane,  and  the  lloyal  Poet  of  Scotland. 


THE  COUNTRY   CIIUnCH. 

A  gcnllcmnn! 
WhHl,  o'  tho  woolpack?  or  llio  HUKiir-cheHt? 
Or  liblM  of  volvi'l?  which  ih'l,  puuiiJ,  or  yard, 
You  vend  your  gentry  by  ;•*—  Heuuar'm  Bush. 

Tfieiik  are  few  places  more  favorable  to  the  study  of  char- 
acter than  an  English  country  church.  I  was  once  passing  a 
few  weeks  at  the  seat  of  a  fiiend,  who  resided  in  the  vicinity 
of  one,  the  appearance  of  which  particularly  struck  my  fancy. 
It  was  one  of  tliose  rich  morsels  of  quaint  anti(]uity,  which  give 
such  a  peculiar  diarni  to  English  hmdscitpe.  It  stood  in  the 
midst  of  a  county  filled  with  ancient  families,  and  contained, 
williiu  its  cold  and  silent  aisles,  the  congregated  dust  of  many 
noble  generations.  The  interior  walla  were  encrusted  with 
nioiiumeuts  of  every  age  and  style.  The  light  streamed  through 
windows  dimmed  with  ariUDrial  l)earings,  richly  emblazoned  in 
stained  glass.  In  various  parts  of  the  church  vvere  tombs  oi 
ktiiiihts,  and  high-born  daiues,  of  gorgeous  workmanship,  with 
their  einjiies  in  colored  marble.  On  every  siile,  the  eye  was 
struck  with  some  instance  of  aspiring  mort.dity;  some  liaughty 
nu  nioriul  which  human  pride  had  erected  ow  r  its  kindred  dust, 
in  this  temple  of  the  most  liund)le  of  all  religions. 

The  congregation  was  comnosed  of  the  neighboring  people 
of  rank  who  sat  in  pews  sumptuously  lined  and  cushioned, 
furnished  with  riehly-gihled  prayer-books,  and  decorated  willi 
their  arms  upon  the  pew  doors;  of  the  villagers  and  peasantry, 
who  filled  the  back  seats,  and  a  small  gallery  beside  the  organ ; 
and  of  the  poor  of  tlje  iiarish,  who  were  ranged  on  benches  in 
the  aisles. 

The  service  was  performed  by  a  snuflling,  well-ftid  vicar,  who 
had  a  snug  dwelling  near  the  church,  lie  was  a  )>rivileged 
must  at  all  the  tables  of  the  neighborhood,  and  bad  been  the 
keenest  fox-hunter  in  the  country,  until  age  and  good  living 
hud  disabled  him  from  doing  any  thing  more  than  ri<le  to  see 
*liQ  hounds  throw  oil,  and  maku  one  at  the  hunting;  diuner> 


i '' '  I 


ii    .♦ 


■  ^'  { 


78 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


M 


Under  the  ministry  of  such  a  pastor,  I  found  it  impossible  to 
get  into  the  train  of  thought  suitable  to  the  time  and  place  ;  so 
having,  like  many  other  feeble  Christians,  compromised  with 
my  conscience,  by  laying  the  sin  of  ray  own  delinquency  at 
another  person's  threshold,  I  occupied  myself  by  making  obser- 
vations on  ray  neighbors. 

I  was  as  yet  a  stranger  in  England,  and  curious  to  notice  the 
manners  of  its  fashionable  classes.  I  found,  as  usual,  that 
there  was  the  least  pretension  where  there  was  the  most  ac- 
knowledged title  to  respect.  I  was  particularly  struck,  for 
instance,  with  the  family  of  a  nobleraan  of  high  rank,  consist- 
ing of  several  sons  and  daughters.  Nothing  could  be  moi-e 
simple  and  unassuraing  than  their  appearance.  They  generally 
carae  to  church  in  the  i)lainest  equipage,  and  often  on  foot. 
The  young  ladies  would  stop  and  converse  in  the  kindest  man- 
ner with  the  peasantry,  caress  the  children,  and  listen  to  the 
stories  of  the  humble  cottagers.  Their  countenances  were  open 
and  beautifully  fair,  with  an  expression  of  high  refinement,  but 
at  the  same  time,  a  frank  cheerfulness,  and  engaging  affability. 
Their  brothers  were  tall,  and  elegantly  formed.  They  were 
dressed  fashionably,  but  simply  ;  with  strict  neatness  and  pro- 
priety, but  without  any  mannerism  or  foppishness.  Their  whole 
demeanor  was  easy  and  natural,  with  that  lofty  grace,  and 
noble  frankness,  which  bespeak  free-born  souls  that  have  never 
been  checked  in  their  growth  by  feelings  of  inferiority.  There 
is  a  healthful  hardiness  about  real  dignity,  that  never  dreads 
contact  and  comraunion  with  others,  however  humble.  It  is 
only  spurious  pride  that  is  morbid  and  sensitive^  and  shrinks 
from  every  touch.  I  was  pleased  to  see  the  manner  in  which 
they  would  converse  with  the  peasantry  about  those  rural  con- 
cerns iiiid  field  sports,  in  which  the  gentlemen  of  this  country 
so  much  delight.  In  these  conversations,  there  was  neither 
haughtiness  on  the  one  part,  nor  servility  on  the  other ;  and  you 
were  only  reminded  of  the  difference  of  rank  by  the  habitual 
respect  of  the  peasant. 

In  contrast  to  th'^"  %  was  the  family  of  a  wealthy  citizen, 
who  had  amassed  a  vast  fortune,  and,  having  purchased  the 
estate  and  mansion  of  a  ruined  nobleman  in  the  neighborhood, 
was  endeavoring  to  assume  all  the  style  and  dignity  of  an  heredi- 
tary lord  of  the  soil.  The  family  always  came  to  church  en 
prince.  They  were  rolled  majestically  along  in  a  carriage  embla- 
zoned with  arms.  The  crest  glittered  in  silver  radiance  from 
every  part  of  the  harness  where  a  crest  could  possibly  hv  i)la('C'(l. 
A  fat  coachman  in  a  three-cornered  hat.  richly  laced,  and  a  Iluxen 


THE   COUNTRY  CIIURCU. 


79 


^g,  curling  close  round  his  rosy  face,  was  seated  on  the  box, 
with  a  sleek  Danish  dog  beside  liim.  Two  footmen  in  gorgeous 
liveries,  with  huge  bouquets,  and  gold-headed  canes,  lolled  be- 
hind. The  carriage  lose  and  sunk  on  its  long  springs  with  a 
peculiar  stateliness  of  motion.  The  very  horses  champed  their 
bits,  arched  their  necks,  and  glanced  their  eyes  more  proudly 
than  common  horses ;  either  because  they  had  caught  a  little  of 
the  family  feeling,  or  were  reined  up  more  tightly  than  ordi- 
nary. 

1  could  not  but  admire  the  style  with  which  this  splendid 
pageant  was  brought  up  to  the  gate  of  the  churchyard.  There 
was  a  vast  effect  produced  at  the  turning  of  an  angle  of  the 
wall;  —  a  great  smacking  of  the  whip;  straining  and  scram- 
bling of  horses;  glistening  of  harness,  and  flashing  of  wheek 
through  gravel.  This  was  the  moment  of  triumph  and  vain- 
glory to  the  coachman.  The  horses  were  urged  and  checked, 
until  they  were  fretted  into  a  foam.  They  threw  out  their  feet 
in  a  prancing  trot,  dashing  about  pebbles  at  every  step.  Tho 
crowd  of  villagers  sauntering  quietly  to  church,  opened  precipi- 
tately to  the  right  and  left,  gaping  »n  vacant  admiration.  Or. 
reaching  the  g'\te,  the  horses  were  pulled  up  with  a  suddenness 
that  produced  an  immediate  stop,  and  almost  threw  them  on 
their  haunches. 

There  was  an  extraordinary  hurry  of  the  footmen  to  alight, 
pull  down  the  steps,  and  prepare  every  thing  for  the  de- 
scent on  earth  of  this  august  family.  The  old  citizen 
first  emerged  his  round  red  face  from  out  the  door,  looking 
about  him  with  the  pompous  air  of  a  man  accustomed  to  rule 
on  'change,  and  shake  the  stock-market  with  a  nod.  His  con- 
sort, a  fine,  fleshy,  comfortable  dame,  followed  him.  There 
seemed,  I  must  confess,  l»ut  little  pride  in  her  composition.  She 
was  the  picture  of  broad,  lioncst,  vulgar  enjoyment.  The  world 
went  well  with  her ;  and  she  liked  the  world.  She  had  fine 
clothes,  a  fine  house,  a  fine  carriage,  fine  children,  every  thing 
was  fine  about  her :  it  was  nothing  but  driving  about,  and  visit- 
ing and  feasting.  Life  was  to  lier  a  perpetual  revel ;  it  was 
one  long  Lord  Mayor's  day. 

Two  daughters  succeeded  to  this  goodly  couple.  They  cer- 
tainly were  handsome  ;  but  had  a  supercilious  air  that  cliilled 
admiration,  and  disposed  the  spectator  to  be  critical.  They 
were  ultra-fashionable  in  dress,  tuid,  though  no  one  could  deny 
the  richness  of  their  decorations,  yet  their  appropriateness 
might  be  questioned  amidst  the  simplicity  of  a  country  church. 
They  descended  loftily  from  the  carriage,  and  moved  up  the 


i;i! 


US 


•  '  ; 


:-   !, 


■  V. 


..  Itll  I 


80 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


f 


1*1 


I  I      U 


line  of  peasantry  with  a  step  that  seemed  dainty  of  the  soil  \\ 
trod  on.  They  cast  an  excursive  glance  annuid,  that  passed 
coldly  over  the  burly  faces  of  the  peasantry,  until  they  nat  the 
eyes  of  the  nobleman's  family,  when  their  countenances  imme- 
diately brightened  into  smiles,  and  they  made  the  most  prof(>uud 
and  elegant  courtesies,  which  were  returned  in  a  manner  that 
showed  they  were  but  slight  acquaintances. 

I  must  not  forget  the  two  sons  of  this  aspiring  citizen,  who 
came  to  church  in  a  dashing  curricle,  with  outriders.  They  wore 
arrayed  in  the  extremity  of  the  mode,  with  all  that  pedantry  of 
dress  which  marks  the  man  of  questionable  pretensions  to  style. 
They  kept  entirely  by  themselves,  eying  every  one  askance 
that  came  near  them,  as  if  measuring  his  claims  lo  respecta- 
bility ;  yet  they  were  without  conversation,  except  the  exchange 
of  an  occasional  cant  phrase.  They  even  moved  artidcially, 
for  their  bodies,  in  compliance  with  the  caprice  of  the  day,  hail 
been  discii)lined  into  the  absence  of  all  ease  and  freedom.  Art 
had  done  every  thing  to  accomplish  them  as  men  of  fusliion, 
but  Nature  had  denied  them  the  nameless  grace.  Tliey  wore 
vulgarly  shaped,  like  men  formed  for  the  common  purposes  of 
life,  and  had  that  air  of  supercilious  assumption  which  is  never 
seen  in  the  true  gentleman. 

I  have  been  rather  minute  in  drawing  the  pictures  of  these 
two  families,  because  I  considered  them  specimens  of  what  is 
often  to  be  met  with  in  this  country  —  the  unpretending  ;;re:it, 
and  the  arrogant  little.  I  have  no  respect  for  titled  rank, 
unless  it  be  accompanied  with  true  nobility  of  sold;  but  I  luive 
remarked,  in  all  countries  where  artificial  distinctions  exist, 
that  the  very  highest  classes  aic  always  the  most  courteous 
and  unassuming.  Those  who  are  well  assured  of  their  own 
standing,  are  least  apt  to  trespass  on  that  of  others :  whereas 
nothing  is  so  offensive  as  the  aspirings  of  vulgarity,  which 
thinks  to  elevate  itself  by  humiliating  its  neighbor. 

As  I  have  brought  these  families  into  contrast,  I  must  notice 
their  behavior  in  church.  That  of  the  nobleman's  family  was 
quiet,  serious,  and  attentive.  Not  that  they  appeared  to  have 
any  fei-vor  of  devotion,  but  rather  a  respect  for  sacred  things, 
and  sacred  places,  inseparable  from  good-breeding.  The  others, 
on  the  contrary,  were  in  a  perpetual  flutter  and  whisper ;  tliey 
betrayed  a  continual  consciousness  of  finery,  and  a  sorry  ambition 
of  being  the  wonders  of  a  rural  congregation. 

The  old  gentleman  was  the  only  one  really  attentive  to  the 
service.  He  took  the  whole  burden  of  family  devotion  u;ii);i 
himself  I  standing  bolt  upright,  and  uttering  tiae  responses  W\\''X 


THE    WIDOW  AND    HER  SON. 


81 


a  lond  voice  that  migljt  be  heard  all  over  the  clmrch.  It  was 
eviilent  that  he  was  one  of  those  thorough  church  and  king 
men,  who  coiim'Ct  tlie  idea  of  devotion  and  loyalty  ;  who  con- 
sider the  Deity,  sonieliow  or  otiier,  of  tlie  government  party, 
ami  rclijj:ion  "  a  very  excellent  sort  of  thing,  that  ought  to  1)0 
couiiteiuinced  and  kept  up." 

Wlit'U  he  joined  so  loudly  in  the  service,  it  seemed  more  by 
(vav  of  example  to  the  lower  orders,  to  show  them,  that  though 
go  "Tt-at  and  wealthy,  he  was  not  above  being  religious;  as  I 
liave  seen  a  turtle-fed  alderman  swallow  publicly  a  basin  of 
charity  soup,  smacking  his  lips  at  every  mouthful,  and  pro- 
nouiuiuii;  it  " excellent  food  for  the  poor." 

When  the  service  was  at  an  end,  1  was  curious  to  witness  the 
several  exits  of  jny  groups.  The  young  noblemen  and  their 
sisters,  as  the  day  was  line,  preferred  strolling  home  across  the 
fields,  chatting  with  the  country  peo[)le  as  they  went.  The 
others  departed  as  they  came  in  grand  parade.  Again  were 
the  equipages  wheeled  up  to  the  gate.  There  was  again  the 
smackinu;  of  whips,  the  clattering  of  hoofs,  and  the  glittering 
of  harness.  The  horses  started  otT  almost  at  a  bound ;  the 
villagers  again  hurried  to  right  and  left ;  the  wheels  threw  up  a 
cloud  of  dust,  and  the  aspiring  family  was  rapt  out  of  sight  in 
a  whirlwind. 


THE  WIDOW  AND  HER  SON.» 


Pittle  old  ai;e,  within  whoHo  BUver  halroa 
Honour  and  reverence  evermore  liiive  r;ui;n'd. 

Marlowe's  Tambcrlaine. 

DuKixcr  my  residence  in  the  country,  I  used  frequently  to  at- 
tend at  the  old  village  church.  Its  shadowy  aisles,  its  moulder- 
mr  monuments,  its  dark  oaken  panelling,  all  reverend  with  the 
illooni  of  departed  years,  seemed  to  fit  it  for  the  haunt  of  solemn 
niediration.  A  Sunday,  too,  in  the  country,  is  so  holy  in  its 
repose  ;  such  a  pensive  quiet  reigns  over  the  face  of  nature,  that 
every  restless  i)assion  is  charmed  down,  and  we  feel  all  the 
natural  religion  of  the  soul  gently  si)ringing  up  within  us. 


'  'Tn 


I,  '  '< : 


"  Sweet  day,  bo  pure,  so  ealm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  tiie  earth  and  sky." 

I  do  not  pretend  to  claim  the  character  of  a  devout  man  ;  but 
there  are  feelings  that  visit  me  in  a  country  church,  amid  the 

>  See  Appendix  for  text  of  revUed  edition. 


82 


TBE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


H? 


•d 


beautiful  serenity  of  nature,  which  I  experience  nowhere  else; 
and  if  not  a  more  religious,  I  think  I  am  a  better  man  on  Sun. 
day,  than  on  any  other  day  of  the  seven. 

But  in  this  church  I  felt  myself  continually  thrown  back  upon 
the  world  by  the  frigidity  and  pomp  of  the  poor  worms  around 
The  only  being  that  seemed  thoroughly  to  feel  the  humble 


me. 


and  prostrate  piety  of  a  true  Christian  was  a  poor  decrepit  oUl 
woman,  bending  under  the  weight  of  years  and  infirmities.  She 
boie  the  traces  of  something  better  than  abject  poverty.  The 
lingeriugs  of  decent  pride  were  visible  in  her  appearance.  Her 
dress,  though  humble  in  the  extreme,  was  scrupulously  clean. 
Some  trivitil  respect,  too,  had  been  awarded  her,  for  she  did  not 
take  her  seat  among  the  village  poor,  but  sat  alone  on  the  steps 
of  the  altar.  She  seemed  to  have  survived  all  love,  all  friend- 
ship, all  society ;  and  to  have  nothing  left  her  but  the  hopes  of 
heaven.  When  I  saw  her  feebly  rising  and  bending  her  aged 
form  in  prayer ;  habitually  conning  her  prayer-book,  which  her 
palsied  hand  and  failing  eyes  would  not  permit  her  to  read,  but 
which  she  evidently  knew  by  heart ;  I  felt  persuaded  that  the 
faltering  voice  of  that  poor  woman  arose  to  heaven  far  before 
the  responses  of  the  clerk,  the  swell  of  the  organ,  or  the  chant 
ing  of  the  choir. 

I  am  fond  of  loitering  about  country  churches ;  and  this  was 
ao  delightfully  situatedy  that  it  frequently  attracted  me.  It 
stood  on  a  knoll,  round  which  a  small  stream  made  a  beautiful 
bend,  and  then  wound  its  way  through  a  long  reach  of  soft 
meadow  scenery.  The  church  was  surrounded  by  yew  trees, 
which  seemed  almost  coeval  with  itself.  Its  tall  Gothic  spire 
shot  up  lightly  from  among  them,  with  rooks  and  crows  gener- 
ally  wheeling  about  it.  1  was  seated  there  one  still  sunny 
morning,  watching  two  laborers  who  were  digging  a  grave. 
They  had  chosen  one  of  the  most  remote  and  neglected  corners 
of  the  churchyard,  where,  from  the  number  of  nameless  graves 
around,  it  would  appear  that  the  indigent  and  friendless  vveru 
huddled  into  the  earth.  I  was  told  that  the  new-made  grave 
was  for  the  only  son  of  a  poor  widow.  While  I  was  meditating 
on  tae  distinctions  of  worldly  rank,  which  extend  thus  down 
into  *he  very  dust,  the  toll  of  the  bell  announced  the  approach 
of  the  funeral.  They  were  the  obsequies  of  poverty,  with  which 
pride  had  nothing  to  do.  A  coffin  of  the  plainest  materials, 
without  pall  or  other  covering,  was  borne  by  some  of  the  vil- 
lagers. The  sexton  walked  before  with  an  air  of  cold  indiffer- 
ence. There  were  no  mock  mourners  in  the  trappings  of  affected 
woe,  but  there  was  one  real  mourner  who  feebly  tottered  after 


THE    WIDOW  AND  HER   SON. 


the  corpse.  It  was  the  aged  mother  of  the  deceased  —  tne  poor 
old  woman  v/hom  I  had  seen  seated  on  the  steps  of  the  altar. 
She  was  supported  by  an  humble  friend,  who  was  endeavoring 
to  comfort  her.  A  few  of  the  neighboring  poor  had  joined  the 
train,  and  some  children  of  the  village  were  running  hand  in 
hand,  now  sliouting  with  unthinking  mirth,  and  now  pausing  to 
gaze,  with  childisli  curiosity,  on  the  grief  of  the  mourner. 

As  the  funeral  train  approached  the  grave,  the  parson  issued 
from  the  church  porch,  arrayed  in  the  surplice,  with  prayer- 
book  in  hand,  and  attended  by  the  clerk.  The  service,  how- 
ever, was  a  mere  act  of  charity.  The  deceased  had  been  desti- 
tute, aud  tlie  survivor  was  penniless.  It  was  shuffled  through, 
therefore,  in  form,  but  coldly  and  unfeelingly.  The  well-fed 
priest  moved  but  a  few  steps  from  the  church  door ;  his  voice 
could  scarcely  be  heard  at  tlie  grave  ;  and  never  did  I  hear  the 
funeral  service,  tiiat  sublime  and  touching  ceremony,  turned 
into  such  a  frigid  mummer}-  of  words. 

I  approached  the  grave.  The  coffin  was  placed  on  the 
ground.  On  it  were  inscribed  the  name  and  age  of  the 
deceased  —  "George  Somers,  aged  26  years."  The  poor 
mother  had  been  assisted  to  kneel  down  at  the  head  of  it.  Her 
withered  hands  were  clasped,  as  if  in  pra3'er ;  but  I  could  per- 
ceive, by  a  feeble  rocking  of  the  body,  and  a  convulsive  motion 
of  the  lips,  that  she  was  gazing  on  the  last  relics  of  her  son 
with  the  yearnings  of  a  mother's  heart. 

Preparations  were  made  to  deposit  the  coffin  in  the  earth. 
There  was  that  bustling  stir,  which  breaks  so  harshly  on  the 
feelings  of  grief  and  affection :  directions  given  in  the  cold 
tones  of  business  ;  the  striking  of  spades  into  sand  and  gravel ; 
which,  at  the  grave  of  those  we  love,  is  of  all  sounds  the  most 
withering.  The  bustle  around  seemed  to  waken  the  mother  from 
a  wretched  reverie.  She  raised  her  glazed  eyes,  and  looked 
about  with  a  faint  wilduess.  As  the  men  approached  with  cords 
to  lower  the  coHln  into  the  grave,  she  wrung  her  hands,  and 
broke  into  an  agony  of  grief.  The  poor  woman  who  attended 
her,  took  her  by  the  arm,  endeavoring  to  raise  her  from  the  earth, 
and  to  whisper  something  like  consolation  —  "  Nay,  now  —  nay, 
now  —  don't  take  it  so  sorely  to  heart."  She  could  only  shake 
her  head,  and  wring  her  hands,  as  one  not  to  be  comforted. 

As  they  lowered  the  body  into  the  earth,  the  creaking  of  the 
cords  seemed  to  agonize  her ;  but  when,  on  some  accidental 
obstruction,  there  was  a  jostling  of  the  coffin,  all  the  tenderness 
of  the  mother  burst  forth ;  as  if  .iny  harm  could  come  to  him 
who  was  far  beyond  the  reacli  of  worldly  suffering. 


I    ( 


\(\ 


;l 


g4 


rnti  sKi'ytcn-iiooK. 


r  ■■ 

! 


I 


i 


I  could  see  no  nioiv  — my  lioiirt  swollcul  into  my  throat  — my 
eyes  lillecl  with  tears  — 1  felt  as  if  1  were  acting  a  barbarous 
part  in  standing  by  and  gazing  idly  on  this  scene  of  materual 
anguish.  1  wandered  to  another  part  of  the  churchyard,  where 
I  remained  until  the  funeral  train  had  dispersed. 

When  I  saw  the  mother  slowly  and  painfully  quitting  the 
grave,  leaving  behind  her  the  remains  of  all  that  was  dear  to 
her  on  earth,  and  returning  to  silence  and  destitution,  my  heart 
ached  for  her.  What,  thought  I,  are  the  distresses  of  the  ricli? 
Tliey  iiave  friends  to  soothe  —  pleasures  to  beguile  —  a  world 
to  divert  and  dissipate  their  griefs.  What  are  the  sorrows  of 
the  young?    Their  growing  minds  soon  close  above  the  womul 

—  tlieir  ♦'histie  Hi)irits  soon  rise  beneath  the  pressure  —  tlicir 
green  and  ductile  affections  soon  twine  around  new  objects. 
But  the  sorrows  of  the  i>oor,  who  have  no  outward  appliances 
to  soothe  —  the  sorrows  of  the  aged,  with  whom  life  at  best  iu 
Init  a  wintry  day,  and  who  can  look  for  no  aftergrowth  of  joy 

—  the  sorrows  of  a  widow,  aged,  solitjiry,  destitute,  mourning 
over  an  only  son  the  last  solace  of  her  years;  —  these  are 
indeed  sorrows  whicli  make  us  feel  the  impotency  of  consolation. 

It  was  some  time  before  I  left  the  churchyard.  On  ray  way 
homeward,  I  met  with  the  woman  who  had  acted  as  comforter: 
she  *as  jnst  returning  from  accompanying  the  mother  to  her 
lonely  habitation,  and  I  drew  from  her  some  particulars  con- 
nected with  the  affecting  sceae  I  had  witnessed. 

The  parents  of  the  (1 'ceased  had  resided  in  the  village  from 
childhood.  They  had  inhabited  one  of  the  neatest  cottages, 
and  by  various  rural  occupations,  and  the  assistance  of  a  small 
garden,  had  supported  themselves  creditably  and  comfortably, 
and  led  a  happy  and  a  blameless  life.  They  had  one  son,  who 
bad  grown  up  to  be  the  staff  and  pride  of  their  age.  — "Oh, 
siirl"  said  tiic  good  woman,  "he  was  such  a  comely  lad,  so 
aweet- tempered,  so  kind  to  every  one  around  him,  so  dutiful  to 
\am  parents  !  It  did  one's  heart  good  to  see  him  of  a  Sunday, 
OP'  in  his  best,  so  tall,  so  straight,  so  cheery,  supporting 
►Id  mother  to  church  —  for  she  was  always  fonder  of  leaning 
iorg"'s  arm  than  on  her  good  man's  ;  and,  poor  soul,  she 
well  be  proud  of  him,  for  a  tiner  lad  there  was  not  in  the 
ry  roAXud." 
fcrfortuamtely,  the  s«n  wa.^  tempted,  during  a  ^-earof  scarcity 
i  j^ricultural  hardsship.  to  enter  into  the  service  of  one  of 
small  craft  tliuit  phietl  on  a  neJLi'iboring  river.  He  had  not 
long  in  tlii.s  emft»i«jv.  wben  In  was  ent-:ipr>«'d  by  :i  press- 
and  carried  off  u>  liea.      His  parents      e^  ivetl  Ldiugs  of 


f 


his  seizure,  bu 
the  loss  of  tl 
infirm,  grew  h 
The  widow,  1 
longer  support 
was  a  kind  of 
certain  rcspec 
one  applied 
happy  days,  s 
solitary  and  i 
chiefly  supplit 
den,  which  th 
It  was  but  a 
gtances  were 
for  her  repast 
garden  sudde 
be  looking  eu 
men's  clothci 
air  of  one  brc 
hastened  tow 
Bank  on  his 
poor  woman 
—  "Oh  my  c 
poor  boy  Gc 
noble  lad ;  w 
imprisounien 
ward,  to  rep< 
I  will  not  1 
where  joy  ai 
alive :  —  he 
and  cherish 
hira ;  and  if 
fate,  the  des 
ficient.     He 
owed  mothe 
rose  from  it 
The  villa: 
turned,  cro^ 
ance  that  t 
howevei,  to 
was  his  coi 
helped  by  a 
There  is 
manhood ;  1 


|(t 


<.*Jt^m*nmi  •>!*■<*■.■ 


THE   WIDOW  AND  HER   SON. 


85 


bis  seizure,  but  beyond  that  they  could  learn  nothing.  It  was 
the  loss  of  their  main  prop.  The  father,  who  was  already 
infirm,  grew  heartless  and  melancholy,  and  sunk  into  his  grave. 
The  widow,  left  lonely  in  her  age  and  feebleness,  could  no 
longer  support  herself,  and  came  upon  the  parish.  Still  there 
was  a  kind  of  feeling  toward  her  throughout  the  village,  and  a 
certain  respect  as  being  one  of  the  oldest  inhabitants.  As  no 
one  applied  for  the  cottage  in  which  she  had  passed  so  many 
happy  days,  she  was  permitted  to  remain  in  it,  where  she  lived 
solitary  and  almost  helpless.  The  few  wants  of  nature  were 
chiefly  supplied  from  the  scanty  productions  of  her  little  gar- 
den, which  the  neighbors  would  now  and  then  cultivate  for  her. 
It  was  but  a  few  cays  before  the  time  at  whicli  these  circum- 
stances were  toU'  me,  that  she  was  gathering  some  vegetables 
for  her  repast,  v  len  she  heard  the  cottage-door  which  faced  the 
garden  sudtlenly  opened.  A  stranger  came  out,  and  seemed  to 
be  looking  eagerly  and  wildly  around.  lie  was  dressed  in  sea- 
men's clothes,  was  emaciated  and  ghastly  pale,  and  bore  the 
air  of  one  broken  by  sickness  and  hardships.  He  saw  her,  and 
liasti'ued  toward  her,  but  his  steps  were  faint  and  faltering  ;  he 
sank  on  his  knees  before  her,  and  sobbed  like  a  child.  The 
poor  woman  gazed  upon  him  with  a  vacant  and  wandering  eye 
—  "  Oh  my  dear,  dear  mother !  don't  you  know  your  son?  your 
poor  boy  George?"  It  was,  indeed,  the  wreck  of  her  once 
noble  lad ;  who,  shattered  by  wounds,  by  sickness,  and  foreign 
imprisonment,  had,  at  length,  dragged  his  wasted  limbs  home- 
ward, to  repose  among  the  scenes  of  his  childhood. 

I  will  not  attempt  to  detail  the  particulars  of  such  a  meeting, 
where  joy  and  sorrow  were  so  completely  blended  :  still  he  was 
alive  I  —  he  was  come  home! — he  might  yet  live  to  comfort 
and  cherish  her  old  age  !  Nature,  however,  was  exhausted  in 
him ;  and  if  anything  had  been  wanting  to  finish  the  work  of 
fate,  the  desolation  of  his  native  cottage  would  have  been  suf- 
ficient. He  stretched  himself  on  the  pallet  on  which  his  wid- 
owed mother  had  passed  many  a  sleepless  night,  and  he  never 
rose  from  it  again. 

The  villagers,  when  they  heard  that  George  Somers  had  re- 
turned, crowded  to  see  him,  offering  every  comfort  and  assist- 
ance that  their  humble  means  afforded.  He  was  too  weak, 
howevei ,  to  talk  —  he  could  only  look  his  thanks.  His  mother 
was  his  constant  attendant ;  and  he  seemed  unwilling  to  be 
helped  by  any  other  hand. 

There  is  something  in  sickness  that  breaks  down  the  pride  of 
manhood  ;  that  softens  the   heart  and  brings  it  back  to  the  feel 


»b' 


TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


ings  of  infancy.  Who  that  has  languished,  even  in  advanced 
life,  in  sickness  and  despondency ;  who  that  has  pined  on  a 
weary  bed  in  the  neglect  uud  loneliness  of  a  foreign  land  ;  but 
has  thought  on  the  mother  "  that  looked  on  his  childhood,"  that 
smoothed  his  pillow,  and  administered  to  his  helplessness?  Oh! 
there  is  an  enduring  tenderness  in  the  love  of  a  mother  to  a 
son,  that  transcends  all  other  affections  of  the  heart.  It  is 
neither  to  be  chilled  by  selfishness,  nor  daunted  by  danger,  nor 
weakened  by  worthlessnees,  nor  stifled  by  'jgratitude.  She 
will  sacrifice  every  comfort  to  his  convenience  ;  she  will  surrren- 
der  every  pleasure  to  his  enjoyment ;  she  will  glory  in  his  fame, 
and  exult  in  his  prosperity  ;  —  and,  if  misfortune  overtake  him, 
he  will  be  the  dearer  to  her  from  misfortune ;  ond  if  disgrace 
settle  upon  his  name,  she  will  still  love  and  cherish  him  in  spite 
of  his  disgrace ;  and  if  all  the  world  beside  cast  him  off,  she 
will  he  all  the  world  to  him. 

Poor  George  Somers  had  known  what  it  was  to  be  in  sick- 
ness, and  nono  to  soothe  —  lonely  and  in  prison,  and  none  to 
visit  him.  He  could  not  endure  his  mother  from  his  sight ;  if 
she  moved  away,  L'.s  eye  would  follow  her.  She  would  sit  for 
hours  by  his  bed,  watching  him  as  he  slept.  Sometimes  he 
would  start  from  a  feverish  dream,  and  look  anxious'iy  up  until 
he  saw  her  bending  over  him,  when  he  would  take  her  hand,  lay 
it  on  his  bosom,  and  fall  asleep  with  the  tranquillity  of  a  child. 
In  this  way  he  died. 

My  first  impulse,  on  hearing  this  humble  tale  of  affliction,  was 
to  visit  the  cottage  of  the  mourner,  and  administer  pecuniary 
assistance,  and,  if  possible,  comfort.  I  found,  however,  on 
inquiry,  that  the  good  feelings  of  the  villagers  had  prompted 
them  to  do  every  thing  that  the  ease  admitted  ;  and  as  the  poor 
know  best  how  to  console  each  other's  sorrows,  I  did  not  ven- 
ture to  intrude. 

The  next  Sunday  I  was  at  the  village  church  ;  when,  to  my 
surprise,  I  saw  the  poor  old  woman  tottering  down  the  aisie  to 
her  accustomed  seat  on  the  steps  of  the  altar. 

She  had  made  an  effort  to  put  on  something  like  mourning 
for  her  son ;  and  nothing  could  be  more  touching  than  this 
struggle  between  pious  affection  and  utter  poverty :  a  black 
ribbon  or  so  —  a  faded  black  handkerchief  —  and  one  or  two 
more  such  humble  attempts  to  express  by  outward  signs  that 
grief  which  passes  show.  —  When  I  looked  round  upon  the 
storied  monuments,  the  stately  hatchments,  the  cold  marble 
pomp,  with  which  grandeur  mourned  magnificently  over  do- 
parted  pride,  und  turned  to  this  poor  widow,  bowed  down  b}' 


THE  BOAR'S  HEAD   TAVERN,   EASTCHEAP.         87 

nge  and  sorrow  at  the  altar  of  her  God,  and  offering  up  tha 
prayers  and  praises  of  a  pious,  though  a  broken  heart,  1  felt 
that  this  living  monument  of  real  grief  was  worth  them  all. 

I  related  her  story  to  some  of  the  wealthy  members  of  the 
congregation,  and  they  were  moved  by  it.  They  exerted  them- 
selves to  render  her  situation  more  comfortable,  and  to  lighten 
her  afflictions.  It  was,  however,  but  smootliing  a  few  steps  to 
the  grave.  In  the  course  of  a  Sunday  or  two  after,  she  was 
missed  from  her  usual  seat  at  ehurch,  aud  before  I  left  the 
neighborhood,  I  heard  with  a  feeling  of  satisfaction,  that  she 
had  quietly  breathed  her  last,  aud  had  gone  to  rejoin  those  she 
loved,  in  that  world  where  sorrow  is  uever  known,  and  friends 
are  never  parted. 


'1 :  ii  Y 


I-  .1  ( 


THE  BOAR'S  HEAD  TAVERN,   EASTCHEAP. 

A   SHAKSPEARIAN    RESEARCH. 


''A  tavern  is  the  rendezvous,  the  exchange,  the  staple  of  good  fellows.  I  have  heard 
rriy  great-graudfather  tell,  how  his  grcatgicat-graiulfnlhcr  should  say,  that  it  was  an  old 
proverb  when  his  great-grandfather  was  a  child,  that  ■  it  was  a  good  wiod  that  blew  a 
man  to  the  wine.'"  — Mother  BoMBiB. 

It  is  a  pious  custom,  in  some  Catiiolic  countries,  to  honor  the 
memory  of  saints  by  votive  lights  burnt  before  their  pictures. 
The  popularity  of  a  saint,  theiefore,  may  be  known  by  the 
number  of  these  offerings.  One,  perhaps,  is  left  to  moulder  in 
the  darkness  of  his  little  chapel ;  another  may  have  a  solitary 
lamp  to  throw  its  blinking  rays  atliwart  his  effigy  ;  while  the 
whole  blaze  of  adoration  is  lavished  at  the  slirine  of  some  beati- 
fied father  of  renown.  The  wealthy  devotee  biiiign  his  huge 
luminary  of  wax  ;  the  eager  zealot,  his  seven-biTiiiched  oandlc" 
stick ;  and  even  the  mendicant  pilgrim  is  by  no  means  satisfied 
that  sufficient  light  is  tiii'own  upon  the  deceased,  unless  he  hangs 
nn  his  little  lamp  of  smoking  oil.  The  consequence  is,  that  in  the 
eagerness  to  enlighten,  they  are  often  apt  to  obscure ;  and  I 
have  occasionally  seen  an  unlucky  saint  almost  smoked  out  of 
countenance  by  the  oHlciousness  of  liis  followers. 

In  like  manner  has  it  fai'od  with  the  immortal  Shakspeare. 
Every  writer  considers  it  his  bounden  duty,  to  ligiit  up  some 
portion  of  his  character  or  works,  and  to  rescue  some  merit 
fiorn  oblivion.  The  commentator,  opulent  in  words,  produces 
Tast  tom«8  of  dissertations ;  Hie  common  herd  of  editoi-s  send 


'       ): 


'  ?i 


H^: 


! '     f   . 


88 


THE  SEETCU-BOOK. 


li 


'•  !' 


M  .d  la 


up  mists  of  obscurity  from  tlieir  notes  at  the  bottom  of  each 
page ;  and  every  casual  scribbler  brings  his  farthing  rush-light 
of  eulogy  or  research,  to  swell  the  cloud   of   incense  an<i  of 

smoke. 

As  I  honor  all  established  usages  of  my  brethren  of  the  quill, 
I  thought  it  but  proper  to  contribute  my  mite  of  homage  to  the 
memory  of  the  illustrious  bard.  I  was  for  some  time,  however, 
sorely  puzzled  in  what  way  I  should  discharge  this  duty.  I 
found  myself  anticipated  in  ftvery  attempt  at  a  new  reading ; 
every  doubtful  line  had  been  explained  a  dozen  different  ways, 
and  perplexed  beyond  the  reach  of  elucidation  ;  and  as  to  tine 
passages  they  had  all  been  amply  praised  by  previous  admirers : 
nay,  so  completely  had  the  bard,  of  late,  been  overlarded  with 
panegyric  by  a  great  German  critic,  that  it  was  diflicult  now  to 
find  even  a  fault  that  had  not  been  argued  into  a  beauty. 

In  this  perplexity,  I  was  one  morning  turning  over  his  pages, 
when  I  casually  opened  upon  the  comic  scenes  of  Henry  IV., 
and  was,  in  a  moment,  completely  lost  in  the  madcap  revelry 
of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern.  So  vividly  and  naturally  are  those 
ocenes  of  humor  depicted,  and  with  such  force  and  consistency 
are  the  characters  sustained,  that  they  become  mingled  up  in 
ihe  mind  with  the  facts  and  personages  of  real  life.  To  few 
readers  does  it  occur,  that  these  are  all  ideal  creations  of  a 
poet's  brain,  and  that,  in  sober  truth,  no  such  knot  of  merry 
roysters  ever  enlivened  the  dull  neighborhood  of  Eastcheap. 

For  my  part,  I  love  to  give  myself  up  to  the  illusions  of 
poetry.  A  hero  of  fiction  that  never  existed,  is  just  as  valuable 
to  me  as  a  hero  of  history  that  existed  a  tlionsand  years  since ; 
And,  if  I  may  be  excused  such  an  insensil)ility  to  the  common 
ties  of  human  nature,  I  would  not  give  up  fat  .lack  for  half  the 
great  men  of  ancient  chronicle.  What  have  the  lieroes  of  yore 
done  for  me,  or  men  like  me?  The}'  have  concpiered  countries 
of  which  I  do  not  enjoy  an  acre  ;  or  they  have  gained  laurels  of 
which  I  do  not  inherit  a  leaf;  or  they  have  furnished  examples 
of  hare-brained  prowess,  which  I  have  neither  the  opportunity 
nor  the  inclination  to  follow.  But  old  Jack  Falstaff  !  —  kind 
Jack  Falstaff!  — sweet  .Jack  Falstaff!  has  enlarged  the  bound- 
aries of  human  enjo^'ment ;  he  has  added  vast  regions  of  wit 
and  good-humor,  in  which  the  poorest  man  may  ri>\  el ;  and  has 
bequeathed  a  never-failing  inheritance  of  jolly  laughter,  to  make 
mankind  merrier  and  better  to  the  latest  posterity. 

A  thought  suddenly  struck  me:  "I  will  make  a  pilgrimage 
to  P^astcheap,"  said  I,  closing  the  book,  "  and  see  if  the  old 
Boar's  Head  Tavern  still  exists.     Who  knows  but  I  may  lighl 


THE  B 


upon  some  leg* 
at  any  rate,  tl 
halls  once  voc 
qmelling  the  ei: 
The  respluti* 
I  forbear  to  tr 
ooiuiteied  in  r 
of  tlie  faded  g 
wluit   perils  1 
reuowued  Guil 
wonder  of  the 
how  I  visited 
iiniLatiou  of  th 
Let  it  sutlic* 
cheap,  that  an 
aamos  of  the 
bears  testimot 
old  Stowe,  *'  ^ 
cookes  cried  1 
other  victuals 
and  sawtrie." 
roaring  days 
has  given  pla 
pots  and  the  t 
and  the  aecur 
beard,  save, 
chanting  the 
I  sought, 
The  only  leli 
which  former 
the  parting 
renowned  ol 
Kor  the  h 
'efoned  to 
Iiorn  and  brc 
indisputable 
in  a  little  ba 
yard  about  c 
a  glass  dooi 
through  a  > 
which  conii: 
the  little  wo 
be'Mg,  for  ll 
To  be  ve 


1 


THE  BOAR'S  HEAD  TAVERN,  EA8TCHEAP. 


89 


upon  some  legendary  traces  of  Dame  Quickly  and  her  guests ; 
at  any  rate,  there  will  be  a  kindred  pleasure,  in  treading  the 
balls  once  vocal  with  their  mirth,  to  that  the  toper  enjoys  in 
qiuelling  the  empty  cask,  once  filled  with  generous  wine." 

The  resolution  was  no  sooner  formed  than  put  in  execution. 
I  forbear  to  treat  of  the  various  adventures  and  wonders  I  en- 
ooimtered  in  my  travels,  of  the  haunted  regions  of  Cock-lane  ; 
of  tlie  faded  glories  of  Little  liritain,  and  the  parts  adjacent ; 
wluit  perils  1  ran  in  Cateaton-street  and  Old  Jewry;  of  the 
renowned  Guildhall  and  its  two  stunted  giants,  the  pride  and 
wonder  of  the  city,  and  the  terror  of  all  unlucky  urchins  ;  and 
how  I  visited  Loudon  Stone,  and  struck  my  staff  upon  it,  in 
iinitiition  of  that  urch-rebel,  Jack  Cade. 

Let  it  sutiice  to  say,  that  I  at  length  arrived  in  merry  East- 
cheap,  that  ancient  region  of  wit  and  wassail,  where  the  very 
QaniL'3  of  the  streets  relished  of  good  cheer,  as  Pudding-lane 
bears  testimony  even  at  the  present  day.  For  Eastcheap,  says 
old  Stowe,  "  was  always  famous  for  its  convivial  doings.  The 
cookes  cried  hot  ribbes  of  beef  roasted,  pies  well  baked,  and 
other  victuals  ;  there  was  clatterhig  of  pewter  pots,  harpe,  pipe, 
and  sawtric."  Alas  !  how  sadlv  is  the  scene  changed  since  the 
rotuiiiif  days  of  Falstuff  and  old  Stowe !  The  madcap  royster 
has  given  place  to  the  plodding  tradesman  ;  the  clattering  of 
pots  and  tlio  sound  of  "  harpe  and  sawtrie,"  to  the  din  of  carts 
and  the  accursed  dinging  oC  the  dustman's  bell ;  and  no  song  is 
heard,  save,  haply,  the  strain  of  some  siren  from  Billingsgate, 
chanting  the  eulogy  of  deceased  mackerel. 

I  sought,  in  vain,  for  the  ancient  abode  of  Dame  Quickly. 
The  only  relic  of  it  is  a  boar's  head,  carved  in  relief  in  stone, 
which  formerly  served  as  the  sign,  but,  at  present,  is  built  into 
the  parting  hue  of  two  houses  which  stand  on  the  site  of  the 
renowned  old  tavern. 

For  the  history  of  this  little  abode  of  good  fellowship,  I  was 
referred  to  a  tallow-chandler's  widow,  opposite,  who  had  been 
l)orn  and  brought  up  on  the  spot,  ar.'i  was  looked  up  to,  as  the 
indisputable  chronicler  of  the  neighborhood.  I  found  her  seated 
in  a  little  back  parlor,  the  window  of  which  looked  out  upon  a 
yard  about  eight  feet  square,  laid  out  as  a  flower-garden  ;  while 
a  glass  doi>r  opposite  afforded  a  distant  peep  of  the  street, 
through  a  vista  of  soap  and  tallow  candles ;  the  two  views, 
which  comprised,  in  all  probability,  her  prospects  in  life,  and 
the  little  world  in  which  she  had  lived,  and  moved,  and  had  her 
be'ng,  for  the  better  part  of  a  century. 

To  be  versed  in  the  history  of  Eastcheap,  great  and  little, 


If      :   M 


r  ■•  .  I 


1       ;    '.i. 


b  n 


r  m 


!     ! 


I  1 


90 


TBS  SKETCH-BOOK. 


from  London  Stone  even  unto  the  Monument,  was,  doubtless, 
in  her  opinion,  to  be  acquainted  with  the  history  of  the  uni- 
verse.  Yet,  with  till  this,  she  possessed  the  simplicity  of  true 
wisdom,  and  that  liberal,  communicative  disposition,  which  I 
have  generally  remarked  in  intelligent  old  ladies,  knowing  in 
the  concerns  of  their  neighborhood. 

Her  information,  however,  did  not  extend  far  back  into 
antiquity.  She  could  throw  no  light  upon  the  history  of  the 
Boar's  Head,  fron'  the  time  that  Dame  Quickly  espoused  the 
valiant  Pis,tol,  antil  the  great  fire  of  London,  whoi  it  was  un- 
fortuuatel}  burnt  ,l(  \vu.  It  was  soon  rebuilt,  and  continued  to 
flourish  under  the  old  name  and  sign,  until  a  dying  landlord, 
struck  with  remorse  for  double  scores,  bad  measures,  and  other 
iniquities  which  are  incident  to  the  sinful  race  of  publicans, 
endeavored  to  make  his  peace  with  Heaven,  by  bequeathing  the 
tavern  to  St.  Michael's  church,  Crooked-lane,  toward  the  sup- 
porting of  a  chaplain.  F'or  some  time  the  vestry  meetings  were 
regularly  held  there ;  but  it  was  observed  that  the  old  Boar 
never  held  up  his  head  under  church  government.  He  gradu- 
alb-  declined,  and  finally  gave  his  last  gasp  about  thirty  years 
since.  The  tavern  was  then  turned  into  shops ;  but  she  in- 
formed me  that  a  picture  of  it  was  still  i)reserved  in  St.  Michael's 
church,  which  stood  just  in  the  rear.  To  get  a  sight  of  this 
picture  was  now  my  determination  ;  so,  having  informed  myself 
of  the  abode  of  the  sexton,  I  took  my  leave  of  the  venerable 
chronicler  of  Eustohcap,  my  visit  having  doubtless  raised  greatly 
her  opinion  of  her  legendary  lore,  and  furnished  an  important 
incident  in  the  history  of  her  life. 

It  cost  me  some  difficulty  and  much  curious  inquiry,  to 
ferret  out  the  huml)le  hanger-on  to  the  church.  1  had  to 
explore  Crooked-lane,  and  divers  little  alleys,  and  elbows,  and 
dark  passages,  witli  which  this  old  citj'  is  perforated,  like  au 
ancient  ciioese,  or  a  worm-eaten  chest  of  drawers.  At  length 
I  traced  iiun  to  a  corner  of  a  small  court,  surrounded  by  lofty 
houses,  wiiere  the  inhabitants  enjoy  about  as  much  of  the  face 
of  heaven  as  a  commuuity  of  frogs  at  the  bottom  of  a  well. 
The  sexton  was  a  meek,  acquiesoing  little  man,  of  a  bowing, 
lowly  habit ;  yet  he  had  a  pleasant  twinkling  in  his  eye,  and  if 
encouraged,  would  now  and  then  hazard  a  small  pleasantry; 
such  as  a  man  of  his  low  estate  might  venture  to  makt  in  the 
company  of  high  church  wardens,  and  other  mighty  men  of 
the  earth.  I  found  him  in  company  with  the  deputy  organist, 
seated  apart,  like  Milton's  angels;  discoursing,  no  doubt,  on 
high  doctrinal  points,  and  settling  the  affairs  of   the  church 


THE  Bl 

over  a  friendb 
eeldom  delibei 
ance  of  a  cool 
at  the  moment 
nient,  and  wen 
80,  having  ma 
permission  to  i 

The  church  > 
distance  from 
fishmongers  of 
of  glory,  and 
monument  of 
garded  with  a 
the  craft,  as  i 
or  soldiers  the 

I  cannot  bi 
men,  to  obse 
also  the  ashes 
Knight,  who  i 
Tyler,  in  Smi 
almost  the  or 
arms ;  the  sov 
tho  most  paciti 

Adjoining 
under  tlie   ba 
stands  the  ton 
tavern.     It 
of  good  liquc 
deposited  witl 


'  The   followiii] 
which,  unhappily, 


Afe  error  In  th 
-  WhoreaH,"  sniili 
rebel  HiiiiiUMi  tlo' 
Miiior,  wiiH  iinmo 
rash  c'oiieeivtid  di 
j)rim'ip;il  IciuIoih 
we  wcoud  w(M  J( 


THE  BOAR'S  HEAD  TAVERN,    EASTCHEAP.        91 


over  a  friendly  pot  of  ale ;  for  the  lower  classes  of  English 
seldom  deliberate  on  anj'  weighty  matter  without  the  assist- 
ance of  a  cool  tankard  to  clear  their  understandings.  I  arrived 
at  the  moment  when  they  had  finished  their  ale  and  their  argu- 
ment, and  were  about  to  repair  to  the  church  to  put  it  in  order ; 
80,  having  made  known  my  wishes,  I  received  their  gracious 
permission  to  accompany  th"m. 

The  church  of  St.  Michael's,  Crooked-lane,  standing  a  short 
distance  from  Billingsgate,  is  enriched  with  the  tombs  of  many 
fishmongers  of  renown  ;  and  as  every  profession  has  its  galaxy 
of  glory,  and  its  constellation  of  great  men,  I  presume  the 
monument  of  a  mighty  fishmonger  of  the  olden  time  is  re- 
garded with  as  much  reverence  by  succeeding  generations  of 
ihe  craft,  as  poets  feel  on  contemplating  the  tomb  of  Virgil, 
or  soldiers  the  monument  of  a  Marlborough  or  Turenne. 

I  cannot  but  turn  aside,  \^hile  thus  speaking  of  illustrious 
men,  to  observe  that  St.  Michael's,  Crooked-lane,  contains 
also  the  ashes  of  that  doughty  champion,  William  Walworth, 
Knight,  who  so  manfully  clove  down  the  sturdy  wight,  Wat 
Tyler,  in  Smithfield ;  a  hero  worthy  of  honorable  blazon,  as 
almost  the  only  Lord  Mayor  on  record  famous  for  deeds  of 
arms ;  the  sovereigns  of  Cockney  being  generally  renowned  as 
the  most  pacific  of  all  potentates.^ 

Adjoining  the  church,  in  a  small  cemetery,  immediately 
under  the  bucik  window  of  what  was  once  the  Boar's  Head, 
stands  the  tombstone  of  Robert  Preston,  whilom  drawer  at  the 
tavern.  It  is  now  nearly  a  century  since  this  trusty  drawer 
of  good  liquor  closed  his  bustling  career,  and  was  thus  quietly 
deposited  within  call  of  his  customers.     As  I  was  clearing  away 

>  The  following  v/am  the  ancient  inscription  on  the  monument  of  this  worthy 
which,  unhappily,  was  deHtroyed  in  tho  great  conflagration. 

llcrpundor  lylh  a  man  of  fame, 
Wllllani  Walwoith  callyd  by  name; 
KlHlniiontiiT  lie  wan  In  lyt'ftiinc  Iicmc, 
And  twln<>  Lord  Maior,  an  in  liookH  appeare; 
Who,  with  L'ouiage  xluut  and  manly  myght, 
Slew  .lack  Straw  In  Kyni;  Klohard'H  bight. 
For  which  act  done,  and  trcw  entent. 
The  Kyng  made  him  Ivnyght  incontinent; 
And  gnvo  hi  in  armes,  as  hero  yon  b««, 
To  declare  liiB  fact  and  chlvaldrie  : 
lie  left  tliiH  lyff  'he  yero  of  our  (lod 
Tiilrteon  hundri^i  foiirncore  and  three  odd. 

Ak  error  In  the  foregoing  inscription  nas  been  correcti'd  hy  the  venerable  Stow», 
•- Whereas,"  sftith  he,  "  it  hath  been  far  Hiiread  abroad  by  vnlgar  opinion,  that  tta« 
wbcl  Hniitlon  down  »o  manfully  by  Sir  William  Walworth,  the  then  \yorlhy  Loi-«S 
Maior,  wan  named  .Tack  Straw,  and  not  Wat  Tyler,  I  thought  good  to  reconcile  thia 
rasli  conceived  doubt  by  such  testimony  an  I  find  in  Hiicicnl  and  good  record*.  'Vh» 
principal  liMuleiH,  or  capUlns  of  the  coinmoii",  were  Wat  I'yler,  ax  the  flrM  IBMIi 
we  lecoud  v/m  John,  or  Jucli,  tilruw,  elc.,  ttlc."  —  Urowa'a  Loitdom. 


>■  \lh 


ll^^i'li 


3        I 


II'  >\   1 


M 


i 


:i- 


92 


THE  SKErCII-liOOK. 


the  weeds  from  his  epitaph,  the  little  sexton  drew  me  on  one 
side  with  a  mysterious  uir,  and  informed  me,  in  a  low  voice, 
that  ouce  upon  a  tinio,  (Mi  a  dark  wintry  nioht.  when  llu;  wimi 
was  unruly,  howling  and  whistling,  banging  about  doors  ami 
windows,  and  twirling  weatliereoeks,  so  that  the  living  were 
frightened  out  ol'tiieir  l)eds,  and  even  the  dead  eould  not  slwp 
qufetly  in  tlieir  graves,  the  gliost  of  honest  Preston,  whieh  luip- 
peued  to  be  airing  itself  in  the  eliurehyaid,  was  attraeted  hy 
the  well-known  eall  of  "  waiter,"  from  the  Boar's  Head,  uiui 
made  its  sridik'u  appearanee  in  the  midst  of  a  roaring  dub, 
just  as  the  parish  clerk  was  singing  a  stave  from  the  "mirre 
garland  of  Caiitain  Death  ;  "  to  the  iliseonitlture  of  sundry  train- 
band  captains,  anil  the  conversion  of  an  infidel  attorney,  wlio 
became  a  zealous  Christian  on  the  spot,  and  was  never  known 
to  twist  the  truth  afterwards,  except  in  tlie  way  of  l)usincsrs. 

I  beg  it  may  b(;  I'emembered,  that  I  do  not  pledge  niysclt  for 
the  autiienticity  of  this  anecdote  ;  though  it  is  well  known  that 
the  churchyards  and  by-corners  of  this  old  metropolis  aiv  very 
much  infested  with  perturbed  spirits;  and  every  one  nuist  have 
heard  of  the  Cock-lane  ghost,  and  the  apparition  that  guards 
the  regalia  in  the  Tower,  which  has  frightened  so  many  bold 
sentinels  almost  out  of  their  wits. 

Be  all  this  as  it  may,  this  Robert  Preston  seems  to  have 
been  a  worthy  successor  to  the  nimble-tongued  Francis,  who 
attended  upon  the  revels  of  Prince  Hal ;  to  have  been  equally 
prompt  with  his  "anon,  anon,  sir,"  and  to  have  transcended 
his  predecessor  in  honesty ;  for  Falstaff,  the  veracity  of  whose 
taste  no  man  will  venture  to  impeach,  flatly  accuses  Francis 
of  putting  lime  in  his  sack;  whereas,  honest  Preston's  epitaph 
lauds  him  for  the  sobriety  of  his  conduct,  the  .soundness  of  his 
wine,  and  the  fairness  of  his  )  measure. ^  The  wo'thy  dignitaries 
of  the  church,  however,  did  not  appear  much  captivated  by 
the  sober  virtues  of  the  tapster:  the  deputy  organist,  who  had 
a  moist  look  out  of  the  eye,  made  some  shiewd  remark  on  the 

•  Ab  this  inHciiplion  in  rife  with  excellent  morality,  I  tranHeritie  it  fur  the  ;j,dino- 
nition  of  cieliii(|ueiit  tap»ters.  It  is,  no  doubt,  the  (iiodiuaioii  of  oome  choice  spirit 
wbu  oucf  frequented  the  lioar'sHead. 

Bacchn»,  to  give  the  toping  world  Hiirprise, 
Produced  one  hoIut  son,  and  here  he  lies. 
Thoiiifh  reiir'd  iinioni;  fnll  hi)i,'«hi'ii(l?',  he  dcQcd 
The  charms  of  wiiie,  timl  every  one  hiMide. 
O  reader,  if  to  justice  thou  'rl  inclined, 
Keep  hoiU'st  Preston  daily  in  thy  miud. 
He  (iiew  t,'ood  wine,  tool*  -jare  to  till  his  pots, 
Had  sundry  virtues  i'  m  excused  Ills  faults. 
You  tliHl  on  Hm'    wUs  have  the  lii<e  dependence, 
i'ruy  copy  '\,u,  il  lueajiure  dud  attuuduuce. 


THE  BOAR'S  HEAD  TAVERN,  EASTCHEAP.        98 


abstemiousness  of  a  man  brought  up  among  full  hogsheads ; 
and  the  little  sexton  corroborated  his  opinion  by  a  significant 
wink,  and  a  dubious  shake  of  the  head. 

Thus  far  my  researcnes,  though  they  threw  much  light  on 
the  liistoiy  of  tapsters,  lishmongers,  and  Lord  Mayors,  yet  dis- 
appomted  me  in  the  great  object  of  ray  quest,  the  picture  of  the 
Boar  s  Head  Tavern.  2s'<j  such  painting  was  to  be  found  in  the 
church  of  St.  Michael's.  "Marry  and  amen!  "  said  I,  "here 
endeth  my  research!"  So  I  was  giving  the  matter  up,  with 
the  air  of  a  battled  antiquary,  when  my  friend  the  sexton,  per- 
ceiving me  to  be  curious  ui  every  thing  relative  to  the  old  tav- 
ern, offered  to  show  me  the  choice  vessels  of  the  vestry,  which 
had  been  handed  down  from  remote  times,  when  tlie  parish 
meetings  were  held  at  the  Boar's  Head.  These  were  deposited 
in  the  parish  club-room,  which  had  been  transferred,  on  the 
decline  of  the  ancient  establishment,  to  a  tavern  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. 

A  few  steps  brought  us  to  the  house,  which  stands  No.  12, 
Miles-lane,  bearing  the  title  of  Tint  Mason's  Arms,  and  is  kept  by 
Master  Edward  Iloneyball,  the  "bully-rook"  of  the  establish- 
meut.  It  is  one  of  those  little  taverns,  which  abound  in  the 
heart  of  the  city,  and  form  the  centre  of  gossip  and  intelligence 
of  the  neighborlujod.  We  entered  the  bar-room,  which  was 
narrow  and  darkling ;  for  in  these  close  lanes  but  few  rays  of 
retlected  light  arc  euabled  to  struggle  down  to  the  inhabitants, 
whose  broad  day  is  at  best  l)ut  a  tolerable  twilight.  The  room 
was  partitioned  into  boxes,  each  containing  a  table  spread  with 
a  cleau  white  cloth,  ready  for  dinner.  This  showed  that  the 
guests  were  of  the  good  old  stamp,  and  divided  their  day 
equally,  for  it  was  but  just  one  o'clock.  At  the  lower  end  of 
the  room  was  a  clear  coal  fire,  before  which  a  breast  of  lamb 
was  roasting.  A  row  o'  bright  brass  candlesticks  and  pewter 
mugs  glistetied  ..long  the  mantelpiece,  and  an  old-fashioned  clock 
ticked  in  one  corner.  There  was  something  primitive  in  this 
medley  of  kitchen,  parlor,  and  hall,  that  carried  me  back  to 
earlier  times,  and  pleased  me.  The  place,  indeed,  was  humble, 
but  every  thing  had  that  look  of  order  and  neatness  which  be- 
speaks the  superintendence  of  a  notable  English  housewife.  A 
group  of  amphibious-looking  beings,  who  might  be  either  fish- 
ermen or  sailors,  were  regaling  themselves  in  one  of  the  boxes. 
As  I  was  a  visitor  of  rather  higher  pretensions,  I  was  ushered 
into  a  little  misshapen  back  room,  having  at  least  nine  corner.'. 
It  was  ligiited  by  a  skylight,  furnished  with  antiquated  leathern 
chairs,  and  ornamented  with  the  poitrait  of  a  fat  pig.     It  was 


:    «T  ■  ■ 


I } 


lUi: 


'*'|i 


''i;- 


:ii.,: 


94 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


\  If 


evidently  appropriated  to  particular  customers,  and  I  found  a 
shabby  gentleman,  in  a  red  nose,  and  oil-cloth  hat,  seated  in 
one  corner,  meditating  on  a  half-empty  pot  of  porter. 

The  old  sexton  had  taken  the  landlady  aside,  and  with  an  air 
of  profound  importance  imparted  to  her  my  errand.  Dame 
Honeyball  was  a  likely,  plump,  bustling  little  woman,  and  no 
bad  substitute  for  that  paragon  of  hostesses.  Dame  Quickly. 
She  seemed  delighted  with  an  opportunity  to  oblige  ;  and  hurry. 
ing  up  stairs  to  the  archives  of  her  house,  where  the  precious 
vessels  of  the  parish  club  were  deposited,  she  returned,  smiling 
and  courtesying  with  them  in  her  hands. 

The  first  she  presented  me  was  a  japanned  iron  tobacco-bo?:, 
of  gigantic  size,  out  of  which,  I  was  told,  the  vestry  had  smoked 
at  their  stated  meetings,  since  time  immemorial ;  and  which 
was  never  suffered  to  be  profaned  by  vulgar  hands,  or  used  on 
common  occasions.  I  received  it  with  becoming  reverence; 
but  what  was  my  delight,  at  beholding  on  its  cover  the  identical 
painting  of  which  I  was  in  quest !  There  was  displayed  the 
outside  of  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern,  and  before  the  door  was  to 
be  seen  the  whole  convivial  fjroup,  at  table,  in  full  revel,  pic- 
tured with  that  wonderful  Aiaelity  and  force,  with  which  the 
portraits  of  renowned  generals  and  commodores  are  illustrated 
on  tobacco  boxes,  for  the  benefit  of  posterity.  Lest,  however, 
there  should  be  any  mistake,  the  cunning  limner  had  warily 
inscribed  the  names  of  Prince  Hal  and  Falstaff  on  the  bottoms 
of  their  chairs. 

On  the  inside  of  the  cover  was  an  inscription,  nearly  obliter- 
ated, recording  that  this  box  was  the  gift  of  Sir  Richard  Gore, 
for  the  use  of  the  vestry  meetings  at  the  Boar's  Head  Tavern, 
and  that  it  was  "  repaired  and  beautified  by  his  successor,  Mr. 
John  Packard,  1767."  Such  is  a  faithful  description  of  tliis 
august  and  venerable  relic,  and  I  question  whether  the  learned 
Scriblerius  contemplated  his  Roman  shield,  or  the  Knights  of 
the  Round  Table  the  long-sought  sangreal  with  more  exultation. 

While  I  was  meditating  on  it  with  enraptured  gaze,  Dame 
Honeyball,  who  was  highly  gratified  by  the  interest  it  excited, 
put  in  my  hands  a  drinking  cup  or  goblet,  which  also  belonged 
to  the  vestry,  and  was  descended  from  the  old  Boar's  Head.  It 
bore  the  inscription  of  having  been  the  gift  of  Francis  Wythers, 
Knight,  and  was  held,  she  told  me,  in  exceeding  great  value, 
being  considered  very  "antyke."  This  last  opinion  was 
strengthened  by  the  shabby  gentleman  with  the  red  r>ose,  and 
oil-cloth  hat,  and  whom  I  strongly  suspected  of  being  a  lineal 
descendant  from  the  valiant  Bftrdolph.     He  suddenly  roused 


TBE  BOAR'S  BEAD  TAVBRIf,  EASTCBEAP.        »5 


from  his  meditation  on  the  pot  of  porter,  and  casting  a  knowing 
look  at  the  goblet,  exclaimed,  "Ay,  ay,  the  head  don't  ache 
now  that  made  that  there  article." 

The  great  importance  attached  to  this  memento  of  ancient 
revelry  by  modern  churchwardens,  at  first  puzzled  me ;  but 
there  is  nothing  sharpens  the  apprehensions  so  much  as  anti< 
quarian  research ;  for  I  immediately  perceived  that  this  could 
be  no  other  than  the  identical  "parcel-gilt  goblet"  on  which 
Falstaff  made  his  loving,  but  faithless  vow  to  Dame  Quickly ; 
and  which  would,  of  course,  be  treasured  up  with  care  among 
the  regalia  of  her  domains,  as  a  testimony  of  that  solemn  con- 
tract.^ 

Mine  hostess,  indeed,  gave  me  a  long  history  how  the  goblet 
had  been  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation.  She  also 
entertained  me  with  many  particulars  concerning  the  worthy 
vestrymen  who  have  seated  themselves  thus  quietly  on  the 
stools  of  the  ancient  roysters  of  Eastcheap,  and,  like  so  many 
commentators,  utter  clouds  of  smoke  in  honor  of  Shakspearc. 
These  I  forbear  to  relate,  lest  my  readers  should  not  be  as 
curious  in  these  matters  as  myself.  Suffice  it  to  say,  the  neigh- 
bors, one  and  all,  about  Eastcheap,  believe  that  Falstaff  and 
his  merry  crew  actually  lived  and  revelled  there.  Nay,  there 
are  several  legendary  anecdotes  concerning  him  still  extant 
among  the  oldest  frequenters  of  the  Mason's  Arms,  which  they 
give  as  transmitted  down  from  their  forefathers ;  and  Mr. 
M'Kash,  an  Irish  hair-dresser,  whose  shop  stands  on  the  site 
of  the  old  Boar's  Head,  has  several  dry  jokes  of  Fat  Jack's  not 
laid  down  in  the  books,  with  which  he  makes  his  customers 
ready  to  die  of  laughter. 

I  now  turned  to  my  friend  the  sexton  to  make  some  further 
inquiries,  but  I  found  him  sunk  in  pensive  meditation.  His 
head  had  declined  a  little  on  one  side  ;  a  deep  sigh  heaved  from< 
the  very  bottom  of  his  stomach,  and,  though  I  could  not  see  a 
tear  trembling  in  his  eye,  yet  a  moisture  was  evidently  steal- 
ing from  a  corner  of  his  mouth.  I  followed  the  direction  of 
his  eye  through  the  door  which  stood  open,  and  found  it  fixed 
wistfully  on  the  savory  breast  of  lamb,  roasting  in  dripping 
richness  before  the  fire. 

I  now  called  to  mind,  that  in  the  eagerness  of  my  recondite 
investigation,  I  was   keeping  the  poor  man   from  his  dinner. 

■  Thou  didst  swMr  to  rae  upon  » parctlgilt goblet,  ■itling  in  my  Dolphin-chamber, at 

the  round  table,  by  a  gca-coal  tire,  on  WedncHday  in  Whitsun-wack,  when  the  Prince 
brolie  thy  head  for  lilienlnfi;  his  father  to  a  itjui;ing-inan  at  Windsor;  thou  didsi  awear  to 
me  then,  as  1  was  washini;  thy  wuuuu,  lu  lumry  ue,  aod  make  mo  my  lady  Mm  miip- 
CauBt  thou  deny  it?  —  Mtnry  IV  part  H. 


•    1 


1 


96 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


f  5 


i  I '^  i 


My  bowels  yearned  with  sympathy,  and  putting  in  his  hand 
a  small  token  of  my  gratitiule  and  good-will,  I  departed  with  a 
hearty  benediction  on  him,  Dame  Honeyball,  and  the  parisli 
club  of  Croo]<ed-lane  —  not  forgetting  my  shabby,  but  senten- 
tious friend,  in  the  oil-eloth  hat  and  copper  nose. 

Thus  liave  I  given  a  "  tedious  brief  "  account  of  this  interest- 
ing  researeli ;  for  which,  if  it  prove  too  short  and  unsatisfactory, 
I  can  only  plead  my  inexperience  in  this  branch  of  literature, 
eo  deservedly  popular  at  tlie  present  day.  I  am  aware  tliat  a 
more  skilful  illustrator  of  the  immortal  bard  would  have  swelled 
the  materials  1  have  touched  upon,  to  a  good  merchantable  hulk, 
comprising  the  biographies  of  William  Walworth,  Jack  Straw, 
and  Robert  Preston  ;  some  notice  of  the  eminent  fishmongers 
of  St.  Michael's;  the  history  of  Eastcheap,  great  and  little; 
private  anecdotes  of  Dame  Honeyball  and  her  pretty  daughtor, 
whom  I  have  not  even  mentioned :  to  say  nothing  of  a  damsel 
tending  the  breast  of  lamb,  (and  whom,  by  the  way,  I  remarked 
to  be  a  comely  lass,  with  a  neat  foot  and  ankle;)  the  whole 
enlivened  by  the  riots  of  Wat  Tyler,  and  illuminated  l)y  the 
great  fire  of  London. 

All  this  I  leave  as  a  rich  mint;,  to  be  worked  by  future  com- 
raentators ;  nor  do  1  despair  of  seeing  the  tobacco-box,  and 
the  "  parcel-gilt  goblet,"  which  I  have  thus  brought  to  liirht, 
the  subjects  of  future  engravings,  and  almost  as  fruitful  of 
voluminous  dissertations  and  disputes  as  the  shield  of  Achilles, 
or  the  far-famed  Portland  vase. 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE. 

A   COLLOQUY   IN   WESTMINSTER   ABBEY. 

I  know  that  all  beneath  the  mnon  clecayE, 
And  what  hy  niortalH  in  thin  woild  ia  brought, 
Id  time's  great  period  Bhall  return  to  nought. 

I  know  that  all  the  muecs'  heavenly  lays, 
With  toil  of  Hprite  which  are  bo  dearly  bought, 
Ab  idle  Bounds,  of  few  or  none  are  sought, 

That  there  is  nothing  lighter  than  mere  praise. 

DnUMMOND  OP  IlAWTliORNDEN. 

There  are  certain  half  dreaming  moods  of  mind,  in  which 
we  naturally  steal  away  from  noise  and  glare,  and  seek  bonie 
quiet  haunt,  where  we  may  indulge  our  reveries,  and  build  our 


i  'IV 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE. 


97 


air  castles  undisturbed.  In  such  a  mood,  I  was  loitering  about 
the  old  gray  cloisters  of  Westminster  Abbey,  enjoying  that 
liixuiy  of  wandering  thought  which  one  is  ajit  to  dignify  with 
the  iiiuiic  of  reHection ;  when  suddenly  an  irruption  of  niad- 
(^iip  liitys  froiu  Westminster  school,  playing  at  foot-ball,  broke 
in  upon  the  monastic  stiiliiess  of  the  ])hun',  making  the  vaulted 
iKUSiiigcs  and  mouldering  touiLs  echo  with  their  n)erriment.  T 
MHiglit  to  take  refuge  from  their  noise  by  penetrating  still 
(IcLjier  into  the  solitudes  of  the  pile,  and  applied  to  one  of 
the  vergers  for  admission  to  the  library.  He  coiubicoed  me 
through  a  portal,  rich  with  the  crumbling  sculpture  of  former 
ages,  which  opened  upon  a  gloomy  passage  leading  to  the 
Chapter-house,  and  the  chamber  in  which  Doomsday  Book 
is  di'i)Osited.  Just  within  the  passage  is  a  small  door  on  the 
left.  To  this  the  verger  a[)plied  a  key  ;  it  was  double  locked, 
and  opened  with  some  difficulty,  as  if  seldom  used.  We  now 
ascended  a  dark  narrow  staircase,  and  passing  through  a  sec- 
ond door,  entered  the  library. 

1  found  myself  in  a  lofty  antique  hall,  the  roof  supported 
by  massive  joists  of  old  English  oak.  It  was  soberly  lighted  by 
a  row  of  Gothic  windows  at  a  considerable  height  from  the 
floor,  and  which  apparently  opened  upon  the  roofs  of  the  clois- 
ters. An  ancient  i)icture  of  some  reverend  dignitary  of  the 
church  in  his  robes  hung  over  the  fireplace.  Around  the  hall 
and  in  a  small  gallery  were  the  books,  arranged  in  carved 
oaken  cases.  They  consisted  principally  of  old  polemical 
writers,  and  were  much  more  worn  by  time  than  use.  In  the 
centic  of  the  library  was  a  solitary  table,  with  two  or  three 
books  on  it,  an  inkstand  without  ink,  and  a  few  ])ens  parched 
by  long  disuse.  The  place  seemed  fitted  for  quiet  study  and 
profound  meditation.  It  was  buried  deej)  among  the  massive 
walls  of  the  abbey,  and  shut  up  from  the  tumult  of  the  world. 
I  could  only  hear  now  and  then  the  shouts  of  the  schoolboys 
faintly  swelling  from  the  cloisters,  and  the  sound  of  a'bell  toll- 
ing f'oi  prayers,  echoing  soberly  along  the  roofs  of  the  abbey. 
Wy  degrees  the  shouts  of  merriment  grew  fainter  and  fainter, 
and  at  length  died  away.  The  bell  ceased  to  toll,  and  a  pro- 
found silence  reigned  through  the  dusky  hall. 

I  hail  taken  (lown  a  little  thick  quarto,  curiously  bound  in 
parchment,  with  brass  clasps,  and  seated  myself  at  the  table  in 
a  venerable  elbow  chair.  Instead  of  reading,  however,  I  was 
beguiled  by  the  solemn  monastic  air  and  lifeless  quiet  of  the 
lil;'(!f',  into  a  train  of  musing.  As  I  looked  around  upon  the  old 
volumes  in  their  mouldering  covers,  thus  ranged  on  the  shelves, 


:     !B;S 


m 


ii    i 


98 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


and  apparently  never  disturbed  in  their  repose,  I  could  not  but 
consider  the  library  a  kind  of  literary  catacomb,  where  authors, 
like  mummies,  are  piously  entombed,  and  left  to  blacken  and 
moulder  in  dusty  oblivion. 

How  much,  thought  1,  has  each  of  these  volumes,  now  thrust 
aside  with  such  indifference,  cost  some  aching  head  —  how 
many  weary  days !  how  many  sleepless  nights !  How  have 
their  authors  buried  themselves  in  the  solitude  of  cells  and 
cloisters;  shut  themselves  up  from  the  face  of  man,  and  tin 
still  more  blessed  face  of  nature ;  and  devoted  themselves  to 
painful  research  and  intense  reflection !  And  all  for  what?  to 
occupy  an  inch  of  dusty  shelf  —  to  have  the  title  of  their 
works  read  now  and  then  in  a  future  age,  by  some  drowsy 
churchman,  or  casual  straggler  like  myself  ;  and  in  another  iige 
to  be  lost  even  to  remembrance.  Such  is  the  amount  of  this 
boasted  immortality.  A  mere  temporary  rumor,  a  local  sound ; 
like  the  tone  of  that  bell  which  has  just  tolled  among  these 
towers,  filling  the  ear  for  a  moment  —  lingering  transiently  in 
echo  —  and  then  passing  away,  like  a  thing  that  was  not  I 

While  I  sat  half-murmuring,  half-meditating  these  unprofit.i- 
ble  speculations,  with  my  head  resting  on  my  hand,  I  was 
thrumming  with  the  other  hand  upon  the  quarto,  until  I  acei 
dentally  loosened  the  ciasps  ;  when,  to  my  utter  astonishment, 
the  little  book  gave  two  or  three  yawns,  like  one  awaking  from 
a  deep  sleep ;  then  a  husky  hem,  and  at  length  began  to  talk. 
At  first  its  voice  was  very  hoarse  and  broken,  being  much  trou- 
bled by  a  cobweb  which  some  studious  spider  had  woven  across 
it ;  and  having  probably  contracted  a  cold  from  long  exposure 
to  the  chills  and  damps  of  the  abbey.  In  a  short  time,  how- 
ever, it  became  more  distinct,  and  I  soon  found  it  an  exceed- 
ingly fluent  conversable  little  tome.  Its  language,  to  be  sure, 
was  raiher  quaint  and  obsolete,  and  its  pronunciation  what  in 
the  present  day  would  be  deemed  barbarous ;  but  I  shall  en- 
deavor, as  far  as  I  am  able,  to  render  it  in  modern  parlance. 

It  began  with  railings  about  the  neglect  of  the  world  —  about 
merit  being  suffered  to  languish  in  obscurity,  and  other  such 
commonplace  topics  of  literary  repining,  and  complained  bitterly 
that  it  had  not  been  opened  for  more  than  two  centuries  ; — that 
the  Dean  only  looked  now  and  then  into  the  library,  sometimes 
took  down  a  volume  or  two,  trifled  with  them  for  a  few  moments, 
and  then  returned  them  to  their  shelves. 

"  What  a  plague  do  they  mean,"  said  the  little  quarto,  which 
I  began  to  pe;v:»eive  was  somewhat  choleric,  ''  what  a  plague  do 
they  mean  by  keeping  several  thousand  vohmies  of  us  shut  up 


THE 

bere,  and  watchc 
in  a  harem,  mer 
Books  were  writ 
would  have  a  ru 
a  visit  at  least  o 
let  them  once  in 
minster  among  i 
an  airing. 

"  Softly,  my 
how  much  bettei 
tion.    By  being 
the  treasured  n 
enshrined  in  the 
contemporary  n 
have  long  since 
''Sir,"  said 
big,  "  I  was  wr 
of" an  abbey, 
like  other  grea 
clasped  up  for  i 
fallen  a  prey  t 
geance  with  my 
an  opportunity 
pieces." 

"  My  good  f 

circulation  of  i 

been  no  more. 

well  stricken  in 

at  present  in  ( 

being  immured 

io  add,  instead 

and  gratefully 

religious  establ 

and  where,  by 

endure  to  an  a: 

your    ontempc 

with  their  wor 

Lincoln  ?     No 

taUty.    He  is 

He  built,  as 

name :  but,  al 

few  fragments 

scarcely  distui 

of  Giraldus  C 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE. 


Iiere,  and  watched  by  a  set  of  old  vergers,  like  so  many  beauties 
in  a  harem,  merely  to  be  looked  at  now  and  then  by  the  Dean? 
Books  were  written  to  give  pleasure  and  to  be  enjoyed ;  and  1 
would  have  a  rule  passed  that  the  Dean  should  pay  each  of  us 
g  visit  at  least  once  a  year ;  or  if  he  is  not  equal  to  the  task, 
let  them  once  in  a  while  turn  loose  the  whole  school  of  West 
minster  among  us,  that  at  any  rpte  we  may  now  and  then  have 
an  airing. 

"Softly,  my  worthy  friend,"  replied  I,  "you  are  not  aware 
how  much  bettor  you  are  off  than  most  books  of  your  genera- 
tion. By  boiug  stored  away  in  this  .ancient  library,  you  are  like 
the  treasured  remains  of  those  snints  and  mouarchs  which  lie 
enshrined  in  the  adjoining  ch.apels ;  while  the  remains  of  your 
contemporary  mortals,  left  to  the  ordinary  course  of  nature, 
have  long  since  returned  to  dust." 

"Sir,"  said  the  little  tome,  rufllling  his  leaves  and  looking 
big,  "  I  was  written  for  all  the  world,  not  for  the  bookworms 
of  an  abbey.  I  was  intended  to  circulate  from  hand  to  hand, 
like  other  great  contemporary  works ;  but  here  have  I  been 
clasped  up  for  more  than  two  centuries,  and  might  have  silently 
fallen  a  prey  to  these  worms  that  are  playing  the  very  ven- 
geance with  my  intestines,  if  you  had  not  by  chance  given  me 
an  opportunity  of  uttering  a  few  last  words  before  I  go  to 
pieces." 

'•My  good  friend,"  rejoined  I,  "had  you  been  left  to  the 
circulation  of  which  you  speak,  you  would  long  ere  this  have 
been  no  more.  To  judge  from  your  physiognomy,  you  are  now 
well  stricken  in  years ;  very  few  of  your  contemporaries  can  be 
at  present  in  existence ;  and  those  few  owe  their  longevity  to 
being  immured  like  yourself  In  old  libraries  ;  which,  suffer  me 
io  add,  instead  of  likening  to  harems,  you  might  more  properly 
and  gratefully  have  compared  to  those  infirmaries  attached  to 
religious  establishments,  for  the  benefit  of  the  old  and  decrepit, 
and  where,  by  quiet  fostering  and  no  employment,  they  often 
endure  to  an  amazingly  good-for-nothing  old  age.  You  talk  of 
your  ontemporaries  as  if  in  circulation  —  where  do  we  meet 
with  their  works?  —  what  do  we  hear  of  Robert  Groteste  of 
Lincoln  ?  No  one  could  h  ive  toiled  harder  than  he  for  immor- 
tality. He  is  said  to  have  written  nearly  two  hundred  volumes. 
He  built,  as  it  were,  a  j  yramid  of  books  to  perpetuate  his 
name :  but,  alas !  the  pyramid  has  long  since  fallen,  and  only  a 
few  fragments  are  scattered  in  various  libraries,  where  they  are 
scarcely  disturbed  even  by  the  antiquarian.  What  do  we  her.r 
of  Giraldus  Cambrensis,  the  historian,  antiquary,  philosopher. 


•'r 


i:!i^ 


11  cJ 


I  1  in    , 


!  ■; 


100 


TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


.; 


ii 


theologian,  and  poet?  He  declined  two  bishoprics,  that  he 
might  shut  himself  up  and  write  for  posterity  ;  liut  posterity 
never  inquires  after  his  labors.  What  of  Henry  of  Hunting. 
don,  who,  besides  a  learned  history  of  England,  wrote  a  treatise 
on  the  contempt  of  the  world,  which  the  world  has  revenged  by 
forgetting  him  ?  What  is  quoted  of  Joseph  of  Exeter,  styled 
the  miracle  of  his  age  in  classical  composition  ?  Of  his  IhrcG 
great  heroic  poems,  one  is  lost  forever,  excepting  a  mere  frag- 
ment;  the  others  are  known  only  to  a  few  of  the  curious  in 
literature ;  and  as  to  his  love  verses  and  epigrams,  tliey  have 
entirely  disappeared.  What  is  in  current  use  of  John  \Vallis, 
the  Franciscan,  who  acquired  the  name  of  the  tree  of  life?  — 
of  William  of  Malmsbury  ;  of  Simeon  of  Durham  ;  of  Ik'nedict 
of  Peterborough;  of  John  Hauvill  of  St.  Albans;  of " 

"Prithee,  friend,"  cried  the  quarto  in  a  testy  tone,  "how 
old  do  3'ou  think  me?  You  are  talking  of  authors  that  lived 
long  before  my  time,  and  wrote  either  in  Latin  or  P'rencli,  so 
that  they  in  a  manner  expatriated  themselves,  and  deserved  to 
be  forgotten  ;  *  but  I,  sir,  was  ushered  into  the  world  from  the 
press  of  the  renowned  AVynkyn  de  Worde.  I  was  written  in 
my  own  native  tongue,  at  a  time  when  the  l:Miguage  had  become 
fixed ;  and,  indeed,  1  was  considered  a  tnoclel  of  pure  and  elegaut 
English." 

[I  should  observe  that  these  remarks  were  conclied  in  such 
intolerably  anti(iuated  terms,  tliat  I  have  h:ul  uilliiite  dillieulty 
in  rendering  them  into  modern  phraseology.] 

"  I  cry  your  mercy, '  said  I,  "  for  mistaking  your  age  ;  but  it 
matters  little  ;  almost  all  the  writes  of  your  time  have  likewise 
passed  into  forgetfulness ;  and  I)e  Worde's  jiublications  are 
mere  literary  rarities  among  book-collectors.  Tiie  i)urity  and 
stability  of  language,  too,  on  which  you  found  your  claims  to 
perpetuity,  have  been  the  fallacious  dependence  of  authors  of 
every  age,  even  back  to  the  times  of  the  wortliy  Hubert  of 
Gloucester,  who  wrote  his  history  in  rhymes  of  mongrel  Saxon." 
Even  now,  many  talk  of  Spenser's  '  well  of  pure  English  unde- 
filed,'  as  if  the  language  ever  sprang  from  a  well  or  foiuitain- 

'  III  LaUti  and  French  hath  many  fioucruine  wltlCH  hud  j;rcat  dolyte  to  eudlt*',  and 
have  many  noble  tbin^H  fulflldc,  liiil  cortCH  there  ben  come  that  Hpeaken  their  poiityii  In 
French,  of  which  Kpeehe  the  Krenclimon  have  ar<  good  a  fanlaoye  as  we  have  In  hearing 
of  Frenchmen's  EugllBho.  — Ciiaucek's  TinUiincnt  of  Low. 

»  llolinahed,  li.  his  Chronicle,  ol)serv('H,  "afterwards,  also,  by  diliqont  travell  of 
Oeffry  Chaucer  and  Jolin  (iowro,  In  the  time  of  Richard  the  Second,  and  after  them  of 
John  Scogan  and  John  Lydgate,  monke  of  Henii;.  our  saiil  toong  wan  l)ro\ight  to  an 
excellent  pagso,  notwithBtanding  that  it  never  came  niilo  the  type  of  perfection  until  the 
lime  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  wherein  .lohn  Jewell,  HlHhoii  of  Sarmn,  John  Kox,  and  Hundrle 
learned  and  excellent  wrIterH,  hitve  fully  accnmpllHhed  the  uriitttur«  of  the  name,  to  their 
gTMt  praiae  mud  itnutortal  commuadaliuu." 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITSttATVttS. 


101 


head,  and  was  not  rather  a  mere  confluence  of  various  tongues, 
nerpotually  subject  to  changes  and  intermixtures.  It  is  this 
which  has  made  English  literature  so  extremely  mutable,  and 
the  reputation  built  upon  it  so  fleeting.  Unless  thought  can 
be  committed  to  something  more  permanent  and  unchangeable 
than  such  a  medium,  even  thought  must  share  the  fate  of  every 
thing  else,  and  fall  into  decay.  This  should  serve  as  a  check 
iijx)!!  the  vanity  and  exultation  of  the  most  popular  writer.  He 
finds  the  language  in  which  he  has  embarked  his  fame  gradually 
altering:,  and  sul^joct  to  the  dilai)idations  of  time  and  the  caprice 
of  fashion.  He  looks  back,  and  beholds  the  early  authors  of 
his  country,  once  the  favorites  of  their  day,  supplanted  by 
inodt'in  writers :  a  few  short  ages  have  covered  them  with  ob- 
scurity, and  their  merits  can  only  be  relished  by  the  quaint 
tasle  of  the  bookworm.  And  such,  he  anticipates,  will  be  the 
fate  of  his  own  work,  which,  however  it  may  be  admired  in  its 
day,  and  held  up  as  a  model  of  purity,  will,  in  the  course  of 
years,  grow  antiquated  and  obsolete,  until  it  shall  become  al- 
most as  unintelligible  in  its  native  land  as  an  Egyptian  obelisk, 
crone  of  those  ilunic  inscri|)tions,  said  to  exist  in  the  deserts 
of  Tartary.  I  declare,"  added  I,  with  some  emotion,  "•  when 
1  contemplate  a  modern  library,  filled  with  new  works  in  all  the 
bravery  of  rich  gilding  and  binding,  I  feel  disposed  to  sit  down 
and  weep  ;  like  the  good  Xerxes,  when  he  surveyed  his  army, 
pranked  out  in  all  the  splendor  of  military  array,  and  reflected 
tliat  in  one  hundred  years  not  one  of  them  would  be  in  exist- 
ence ! ' ' 

"Ah,"  said  the  little  quarto,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "  I  see  how 
it  is;  these  modern  scril)l)lers  have  superseded  all  the  good  old 
authors.  I  sup[)ose  nothing  is  read  now-a-days  but  Sir  Philip 
Sidney's  Arcadia,  Sackville's  stately  plays  and  Mirror  for 
Magistrates,  or  the  line-spun  euphuisms  of  the  '  unparalleled 
Jol  •  Lyly.'  " 

'''iiiere  you  are  again  mistaken,"  said  I ;  "  the  writers  whom 
y-ou  suppose  in  vogue,  because;  they  happened  to  be  so  when 
you  were  last  in  circulation,  have  long  since  had  their  day. 
Sir  I'hilip  Sidney's  Arcadia,  the  innnortality  of  which  was  so 
fondly  predicted  by  his  admirers,'  and  which,  in  truth,  was  full 
of  noble  thougiiLs,  delicate  images,  and  graceful  turns  of  lan- 

'  "  Mve  ever  sweete  Iwoke ;  the  Hiniplc  iiimKu  of  hia  gentle  witt,  and  the  f;oldeii  piUar 
of  hJH  noble  coiiiaue;  and  ever  notify  unlo  tlie  world  that  thy  writer  waH  the  Heeretary 
of  elo({uenee,  tlie  breath  of  the  nuiHCH,  the  honey  bee  of  the  dalntyeut  tlowern  of  wilt  and 
nrle,  tlio  iiiili  of  morale  and  the  intelleetuiil  viitueM,  the  aniic  of  Hellona  in  the  tield,  the 
tuiiKue  ot  Siiada  iu  the  cbaiuUer,  the  Hpirite  of  I'ractioo  iu  «mum),  oud  U>«)  para^ou  of  ezcelr 
iuuuy  iu  prlul," — IIauvby  J'i<rcr'»  «iu>(t/'e»**«»«w»». 


'<    i  i     \  ■■       ■ 


I      I 


i;* 


,    ;.■ 


J 


^^^ii 


i  1!| 


102 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


guage,  is  now  scarcely  ever  mentioned.  8ackville  has  strutted 
into  obscurity ;  and  even  Lyly,  though  his  writings  were  once 
the  delight  of  a  court,  and  apparently  perpetuatef'.  by  a  proverb, 
is  now  scarcely  known  even  by  name.  A  whole  c.owd  of  authors 
who  wrote  and  wrangled  at  the  time,  have  likewise  gone  down 
with  all  their  writings  and  their  controversies.  Wave  after  wave 
of  succeeding  literature  has  rolled  over  them,  until  they  are 
buried  so  deep,  tliat  it  is  only  now  and  then  that  some  industri- 
ous  diver  after  fragments  of  antiquity  brings  up  a  specimen  for 
the  gratification  of  the  curious. 

"  For  my  part,"  I  continued,  "  I  consider  this  mutability  of 
language  a  wise  precaution  of  Providence  for  the  benefit  of  the 
world  at  large,  and  of  authors  in  particular.  To  reason  from 
analogy :  we  daily  behold  the  varied  and  beautiful  tribes  of  vege- 
tables springing  up,  flourishing,  odorning  the  fields  for  a  short 
time,  and  then  fading  into  dust,  to  make  way  for  their  success- 
ors. Were  not  this  the  case,  the  fecundity  of  nature  would  be 
a  grievance  instead  of  a  blessing :  the  earth  would  groan  with 
rank  and  excessive  vegetation,  and  its  surface  become  a  tangled 
wilderness.  In  like  manner,  the  works  of  genius  and  learning 
decline  and  make  way  for  subsequent  productions.  Language 
gradually  varies,  and  with  it  fade  away  the  writings  of  authors 
who  have  flourished  their  allotted  time ;  otherwise  the  creative 
powers  of  genius  would  overstock  the  world,  and  the  mind 
would  be  completely  bewildered  in  the  endless  mazes  of  litera- 
ture. Formerly  there  were  some  restraints  on  this  excessive 
multiplication :  works  had  to  be  transcribed  by  hand,  which 
was  a  slow  and  laborious  operation  ;  they  were  written  either 
on  parchment,  which  was  expensive,  so  that  one  work  was 
often  erased  to  make  way  for  another ;  or  on  papyrus,  which 
was  fragile  and  extremely  perishable.  Authorship  was  a  lim- 
ited and  unprofitable  craft,  pursued  chiefly  by  monks  in  the 
leisure  and  solitude  of  their  cloisters.  The  accumulation  of 
manuscripts  was  slow  and  costly,  and  confined  almost  entirely 
to  monasteries.  To  these  circumstances  it  may,  in  some  meas- 
ure, be  owing  that  we  have  not  been  inundated  by  the  intellect 
of  antiquity ;  that  the  fountains  of  thoughts  have  not  been 
broken  up,  and  modern  genius  drowned  in  the  deluge.  But  the 
inventions  of  paper  and  the  press  have  put  an  end  to  all  these 
restraints :  they  have  made  every  one  a  writer,  and  enabled 
every  mind  to  pour  itself  into  print,  and  diffuse  itself  over  the 
whole  intellectual  world.  The  consequences  are  alarminij. 
The  stream  of  literature  has  swolUm  into  a  torrent  —  augraeutcd 
into  a  river  —  expanded  into  a  sea.     A  few  centuries  since,  tiv« 


m 

>nce 
erb, 
liors 
own 
vave 


THE  MUTABILITY  OF  LITERATURE. 


lua 


or  six  hundred  manuscripts  constituted  a  great  library ;  but 
what  would  you  say  to  libraries,  such  as  actually  exist,  contain- 
ing  three  or  four  hundred  thousand  volumes  ;  legions  of  authors 
at  the  same  time  busy  ;  and  a  press  going  on  with  fearfully  in- 
creasing activity,  to  uoubic  and  quadruple  the  number?  Unless 
some  unforeseen  mortality  sLould  break  out  among  the  progeny 
of  the  Muse,  now  that  she  haii  become  so  prolific,  I  tremble  for 
posterity.  1  fear  the  mere  flue  nation  of  language  will  not  be 
sufiicient.  Criticism  may  do  much ;  it  increases  with  the  in- 
crease of  literature,  and  resembles  one  of  those  salutary  checks 
ou  population  spoken  of  by  economists.  All  possible  encour- 
agement, therefore,  should  be  given  to  the  growth  of  critics, 
good  or  bad.  But  I  fear  all  will  be  in  vain ;  let  criticism  do 
what  it  may,  writers  will  write,  printers  will  print,  and  the 
world  will  inevitably  be  overstocked  with  good  books.  It  will 
soon  be  tlie  employment  of  a  lifetime  merely  to  learn  their 
names.  Many  a  man  of  pa'^sable  information  at  the  present 
(lay  reads  scarcely  any  thing  but  reviews,  and  before  long  a 
man  of  erudition  will  be  little  better  than  a  mere  walking  cata- 


logue. 


"My  very  good  sir,"  said  the  little  quarto,  yawning  most 
drearily  in  my  face,  "  excuse  my  interrupting  you,  but  I  per- 
ceive you  are  rather  given  to  prose.  I  would  ask  the  fate  of 
an  author  who  was  making  some  '»oise  just  as  I  left  the  world. 
His  reputation,  however,  was  considered  quite  temporary.  The 
learned  shook  their  heads  at  him,  for  he  was  a  poor,  half-edu- 
cated varlet,  that  knew  little  of  Latin,  and  nothing  of  Greek, 
and  had  been  obliged  to  run  the  country  for  deer-stealing.  I 
think  his  name  was  Shakspcare.  I  presume  he  soon  sunk  into 
oblivion." 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  I,  "it  is  owing  to  that  very  man 
that  tlie  literature  of  his  period  has  experienced  a  duration 
beyond  the  ordinary  term  of  English  literature.  There  rise 
authors  now  and  then,  who  seem  proof  against  the  mutability 
of  language,  because  they  have  rooted  themselves  in  the  un- 
changing principles  of  human  nature.  They  are  like  gigantic 
trees  that  we  sometimes  see  on  the  banks  of  a  stream,  which, 
by  their  vast  and  deep  roots,  penetrating  through  the  mere  sur- 
face, and  laying  hold  on  the  very  foundations  of  the  earth,  pre- 
serve the  soil  around  them  from  being  swept  away  by  the  over- 
flowing current,  and  hold  up  many  a  neighboring  plant,  and, 
perhaps,  worthless  weed,  to  perpetuity.  Such  is  the  case  with 
Shakspcare,  whom  we  behold  defying  the  encroachments  of 
time,  retaining  in  modern  use  the  language  and  literature  of  bis 


'  1 

■'  1 

1   ' 

4  1 

If 

4 

w 

; 

I 

1  t'\i  \ 

i 

vn 

' 

.  1 

I'll 

'1,  ;       '■ 

;  1 

I'-' 111 

if         ■,•'..■ 


r  •    'I 


^  .;■' 


.  (■ 


104 


THE  SKETCn-BOOK. 


day,  and  giving  duration  to  many  an  indifferent  author  merely 
from  Laving  flourished  in  his  vicinity.  But  even  he,  I  grieve  to 
say,  is  gradually  assuming  the  tint  of  age,  and  his  whole  form 
is  overrun  oy  a  profusion  of  commentators,  who,  like  clamDor- 
ing  vines  and  creepers,  almost  bury  the  noble  plant  that  upholds 
tbem." 

Here  the  little  quarto  began  to  heave  his  sides  and  chuckle, 
until  at  length  he  broke  out  into  a  plethoric  fit  of  laughter  that 
had  well  nigh  choked  him,  by  reason  of  his  excessive  corpu- 
lency.  "  Migbty  well !  "  cried  he,  as  soon  as  he  could  recover 
breath,  "mighty  well!  and  so  you  would  persuade  mo  that 
the  literature  of  an  age  is  to  be  perpetuated  by  a  vagabond 
deer-stealer !  by  a  man  without  learning !  by  a  poet !  for- 
sooth—a poet!"  And  here  he  whcozed  forth  another  fit  of 
laughter. 

I  confess  that  I  felt  somewhat  nettled  at  this  rudeness,  which, 
ho'rever,  I  pardoned  on  account  of  his  having  flourished  in  a 
less  polished  age.  J  determined;  nevertheless,  not  to  give  up 
my  point. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  I  positively,  "  a  poet ;  for  of  all  writers  he 
has  the  best  chance  for  immortality.  Others  may  write  from 
the  head,  but  he  writes  from  the  heart,  and  the  heart  will  always 
understand  him.  He  is  the  I'aitliful  portraycr  of  Nature,  whose 
features  are  always  the  same,  and  always  interesting.  Prose 
writers  are  voluminous  and  unwieldy;  their  pages  nre  crowded 
with  common))l:uH>s,  and  their  thoughts  expanded  into  IcmUous- 
ness.  P>ut  with  the  true  poet  every  thing  is  terse,  (ouchiiip.-, 
or  brilliant.  He  gives  the  choicest  thoughts  in  the  choicest  lan- 
guage. He  illustrates  them  by  every  thing  that  he  sees  most 
striking  in  nature  and  art.  He  enriches  them  by  pictures  of 
human  life,  such  as  it  is  passing  before  him.  His  writings, 
therefore,  contain  the  spirit,  the  aroma, .  if  I  may  use  the 
phrase,  of  the  age  in  which  he  lives.  They  are  caskets  wiiich 
enclose  within  a  small  compass  the  wealth  of  the  language  — 
its  family  jewels,  which  are  thus  transmitted  in  a  portable 
form  to  posterity.  Tlie  setting  may  occasionally  be  antiquated. 
and  require  now  and  then  to  be  renewed,  as  in  the  case  of 
Chaucer;  but  the  brilliancy  and  intrinsic  value  of  the  gems 
continue  unaltered.  Cast  a  look  back  over  the  long  reach  of 
literary  history.  What  vast  valleys  of  dulness,  idled  with 
monkish  legends  and  academical  controversies !  What  bogs  of 
theological  speculations  !  What  dreary  wastes  of  metaphysics  ! 
Here  and  there  only  do  we  behold  the  heaven-illuminali'd 
bards,  elevated  like  beacons  on  their  widely-separate  heights,  to 


transmit  the 

age- 
1  wi'.s   just 

poets  of  the  di 

,110  to  turn  my 

uic  that  it  was 

partini:  word 

sikMil ;  the  ehis 

of  all  tluvt  had 

tiiiH's  since,  a 

versation,  but 

actually  took 

dreams  1o  whi 

been  able  to  (. 


A MONO  the 

flhieh  still  lii 

iii;^  llowers  b^ 

of  departed  t 

of  the  rites  e 

anlitiuity,  hiv 

and  frequent 

the   spontan 

lon<:  before 

or  story  it  < 

with  in  the 

where  fashu 


RURAL  FUNERALS. 


105 


transmit  tlie   pure  light  of  poetical  intelligence  from  age  to 


dgv 


"  1 


1  \v;)s  just  about  to  launch  forth  into  eulogiums  upon  the 
poots  of  tin;  day,  when  the  sudden  opening  of  tlie  door  caused 
nie  to  turn  my  head.  It  was  the  verger,  who  came  to  inform 
uu!  that  it  was  time  to  close  the  library.  I  sought  to  have  a 
paitiiiir  word  with  the  quarto,  but  tlie  worthy  little  tome  was 
sik'iit ;  the  clasps  were  closed  ;  and  it  looked  perfectly  unconscious 
of  all  that  ha^l  passed.  1  have  been  to  the  library  two  or  three 
tiims  since,  and  have  endeavored  to  draw  it  into  furtlier  con- 
versation, but  in  vain  :  and  whether  all  tais  rambling  colloquy 
actually  took  i)laco,  or  whether  it  was  another  of  those  odd  day- 
dreams 1o  which  I  am  subject,  I  have  never,  to  this  moment, 
beeu  able  to  discover. 


RURAL  FUNERALS. 


Hero'«  :i  few  flowora!  but  about  midnight  more: 
T!n^  lR'rl)j<  tliiit  liiivi!  on  lliein  cold  dew  o'  the  night 

Are  Hlri'wiiigM  tilt'sl  for  graves 

You  were  as  llowers  now  withered:  even  so 

Thc'Hu  lierblets  shall,  which  we  upon  you  strow.  —  Ctmbelikb. 

Amon(i  the  beautiful  and  siinplc-liearted  customs  of  rural  life 
wiiic'li  still  liii<ier  in  some  parts  of  Kngland,  are  those  of  strew- 
ing llowers  before  the  fuiieralo  and  planting  them  at  the  gi'aves 
of  departed  friends.  These,  it  is  said,  are  tiie  remains  of  some 
of  llie  rites  of  the  primitive  church ;  but  they  are  of  still  higher 
anti(niity,  having  been  observed  among  the  Greeks  and  Romans, 
and  iVequently  mentioned  by  their  writers,  and  were,  no  doubt, 
the  spontaneous  tributes  of  unlettered  affection,  originating 
lonjr  before  art  had  tasked  itself  to  modulate  sorrow  into  song, 
or  story  it  on  the  monument.  They  are  now  only  to  be  met 
with  in  the  most  distant  and  retired  places  of  the  kingdom, 
wlii're  fashion  and  innovation  have  not  been  able  to  throng  in, 

'  Thorow  earth,  and  waters  decpe, 

'riie  pen  by  «klll  doth  pusse  : 
And  featly  nyps  the  worlds  abuse, 

Am<I  shoeK  us  in  a  glasse, 
The  verlu  and  llie  vice 

Of  every  wiuht  alyve; 
The  lioney  combe  tliat  bee  doth  make, 

Is  not  so  sweet  in  hyve, 
As  are  the  golden  leves 

'I'hal  <irops  from  jioet's  head; 
Whioli  doth  Hiiiinount  our  common  taike, 

An  iarro  im  druiw  dulh  Itiitd.  —  CHUBOUTAap. 


lOb* 


TBE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


'    '  \ 


and  trample  oat  all  the  curious  and  interesting  traces  of  the 
olden  time. 

In  Glamorganshire,  we  are  told,  the  bed  whereon  the  corpsfi 
lies  is  covered  with  flowers,  a  cu&tom  alluded  to  in  one  of  the 
wild  and  plaintive  ditties  of  Ophelia : 

White  hta  Bbroud  as  the  mountain  snow, 

Larded  all  with  sweet  dowers; 
Which  be-wept  to  the  i^rave  did  go, 

With  true  love  showers. 

There  is  also  a  most  delicate  and  beautiful  rite  observed  in 
some  of  the  remote  villages  of  the  south,  at  the  funeral  of  a 
female  who  has  died  young  and  unmarried.  A  chaplet  of 
white  flowers  is  borne  before  the  corpse  by  a  young  girl,  neaiest 
in  age,  size,  and  resemblance,  and  is  afterwards  hung  up  in 
the  church  over  the  accustomed  ser.t  of  the  deceased.  These 
chaplets  are  sometimes  made  of  white  paper,  in  imitation  of 
flowers,  and  inside  of  them  is  generally  a  pair  of  white  gloves. 
They  are  intended  as  emblems  of  the  purity  of  the  deceased, 
and  the  crown  of  glory  which  she  has  received  in  heaven. 

In  some  parts  of  the  country,  also,  the  dead  are  carried  to 
the  grave  with  the  singing  of  psalms  and  hymns ;  a  kind  of 
triumph,  "to  show,"  says  Bourne,  "that  they  have  finished 
their  course  with  joy,  and  are  become  conquerors."  This,  I  am 
informed,  is  observed  in  some  of  the  northern  counties,  par- 
ticularly in  Northumberland,  and  it  has  a  pleasing,  though 
melancholy  effect,  to  hear,  of  a  still  evening,  in  some  lonely 
country  scene,  the  mournful  melody  of  a  funeral  dirge  swelling 
from  a  distance,  and  to  see  the  train  slowly  moving  along  the 
landscape. 

Thus,  thus,  and  thus,  we  comparw  round 
Thy  harmlesse  and  iinhuuntcd  ground, 
And  as  we  siog  thy  dirge,  wc  will 

The  Daffodlll 
And  other  flowers  lay  upon 
The  altar  of  our  love,  thy  8U>ne.  — HXRRICK. 

There  is  also  a  solemn  respect  paid  by  the  traveller  to  the 
passing  funeral  in  these  sequestered  places ;  for  such  spectacles, 
occurring  among  the  quiet  abodes  of  nature,  sink  deep  into  the 
soul.  As  the  mourning  train  approaches,  he  pauses,  uncov- 
ered, to  let  it  go  by ;  he  then  follows  silently  in  the  rear ;  some- 
times quite  to  the  grave,  at  other  times  for  a  few  hundred 
yards,  and  having  paid  this  tribute  of  respect  to  the  deceased, 
tarns  and  resmnes  his  journej. 


The  rich  vein 
character,  and 
graces,  is  finely 
solicitude  showi 
peaceful  grave, 
lowly  lot  while 
be  paid  to  his 
"faire  and  hai 
all  her  oare  is,  t 
of  flowers  stuc 
who  always  br 
to  this   fond   a 
Tragedy,"  by  I| 
stance  of  the 
broken-hearted 


The  custom 

lent ;  osiers  w( 

iniuicd,  and  al 

k  We  adorn  tl 

'lowers  and  re^ 

tvhich  has  bee: 

beauties,  whos 

glory."    This 

land;  but  it  i 

tired  villages, 

instance  of  it : 

head  of  the  b 

by  a  friend,  w 

Glainorganshi 

full  of  flowers 

stuck  about  tl 

He  noticed 

same  manner 

ground,  and  i 

be  seen  in  vai 

perished.     Tl 

rosemary,  an 

grown  to  grei 


' !  f : 

'11 


ji  ■  <  ,.)  ■*—'  ■ 


RURAL  FUNERALS. 


iOi 


Tlie  rich  vein  of  melancholy  which  runs  throtigh  Me  English 
character,  and  gives  it  some  of  its  most  touching  and  ennobling 
mces,  is  finely  evidenced  in  these  pathetic  customs,  and  in  the 
solicitude  shown  by  the  common  people  for  an  honored  and  a 
peaceful  gmve.  The  humblest  peasant,  whatever  may  be  his 
lowly  lot  while  living,  is  anxious  that  some  little  respect  may 
be  paid  to  his  remains.  Sir  Thomas  Overbury,  describing  the 
"faire  and  happy  milkmaid,"  observes,  "thus  lives  she,  and 
all  her  care  is,  that  she  may  die  in  the  spring-time,  to  have  store 
of  flowers  stucke  upon  her  winding-bheet."  The  poets,  too, 
who  always  breathe  the  feeling  of  a  nation,  continually  advert 
to  this  fond  solicitude  about  the  grave.  In  "The  Maid's 
Tragedy,"  by  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  there  is  a  beautiful  in- 
stance of  the  kind,  describing  the  capricious  melancholy  of  a 
broken-hearted  girl. 

When  ehe  Bees  a  bank 
Stuck  full  of  flowerg,  she,  witli  a  Bigb,  will  tell 
Her  aervantB,  what  a  pretty  place  it  were 
To  bury  lovers  in ;  and  make  her  maids 
Pluck  'em,  and  strew  her  over  like  a  cone. 


The  custom  of  decorating  graves  was  once  universally  preva- 
lent ;  osiers  were  carefully  bent  over  them  to  keep  the  turf  un- 
iniured,  and  about  them  were  planted  evergreens  and  flowers. 
'We  adorn  their  graves,"  says  Evelyn,  in  his  Sylva,  "  with 
'lowers  and  redolent  plants,  just  emblems  of  the  life  of  man, 
which  has  been  compared  in  Holy  Scriptures  to  those  fading 
beauties,  whose  roots  being  buried  in  dishonor,  rise  again  in 
glory."  This  usage  has  now  become  extremely  rare  in  Eng- 
land ;  but  it  may  still  be  met  with  in  the  churchyards  of  re- 
tired villages,  among  the  Welsh  mountains ;  and  I  recollect  an 
instance  of  it  at  the  small  town  of  Ruthen,  which  lies  at  the 
head  of  the  beautiful  vale  of  Clewyd.  I  have  been  told  also 
by  a  friend,  who  was  present  at  the  funeral  of  a  young  girl  in 
Glamorganshire,  that  the  female  attendants  had  their  aprons 
full  of  flowers,  which,  as  soon  as  the  body  was  interred,  they 
stuck  about  the  grave. 

Ho  noticed  several  graves  which  had  been  decorated  in  the 
same  manner.  As  the  flowers  had  been  merely  stuck  in  the 
ground,  and  not  planted,  they  had  soon  withered,  and  might 
be  seen  in  various  states  of  decay ;  some  drooping,  others  quite 
perished.  They  were  afterwards  to  be  supplanted  by  holly, 
rosemary,  and  other  evergreens ;  which  on  some  graves  had 
grown  to  great  luxuriance,  and  oyershadowed  the  tombstones. 


I 


?■■' 


;'■  1 1 


I        )■-.. 


108 


TBE    SKETCH-BOOS 


There  was  formerly  a  melancholy  fancifuia«Q;iH  Sn  tJ!">  arrange- 


ment of  these  rustic  ofiferinj^s  that  had  son. 


It, 


truly 


poetical.  The  rose  was  sometimes  blended  vs^th  th«  ;  ",  to 
form  a  general  emblem  of  frail  mortality.  "  This  sweut  tluwer," 
said  Evelyn,  *' borne  on  a  branch  set  with  thorns,  and  accom- 
panied with  the  lily,  are  natural  hieroglyphics  of  our  fugitive, 
umbratile,  anxious,  and  transitory  life,  which,  niaki«'.g  so  fair 
a  show  for  a  time,  is  not  yet  without  its  thorns  :inii  crosses."' 
The  nature  and  color  of  the  flowers,  and  the  ribbois  with 
wliich  they  were  tied,  hnd  often  a  particular  reference  to  the 
qualities  or  story  of  the  deceased,  or  were  expressive  jf  the 
feelings  of  the  mourner.  In  an  old  poem,  entitled  "Corydon's 
Doleful  Knell,"  a  lover  specifies  the  decorations  he  intends  to 
use : 

A  garland  shall  be  framed 

By  Art  aud  Xatare's  skill, 
Of  sundry -colored  flowers, 

In  token  of  good  will. 

And  sundry-colored  ribands 

On  it  I  will  bestow ; 
But  chietly  blacke  and  yellowe 

With  bcr  to  grave  shall  go. 

I'll  deck  her  tomb  with  flowers 

The  rarest  ever  scon ; 
And  with  my  tears  as  showers 

I'll  keep  them  fresh  and  green. 


The  white  rose,  we  are  told,  was  planted  at  the  grave  of  a 
virgin ;  lier  chaplet  was  tied  with  white  ribbons,  in  token  of 
her  spotless  innocence ;  though  sometimes  black  ribi>on8  were 
intermingled,  to  bespeak  the  grief  of  the  survivors.  The  red 
rose  was  occasionally  used,  in  remembrance  of  such  as  had 
been  remarkable  for  benevolence;  but  roses  in  general  were 
appropriated  to  the  graves  of  lovers.  Evelyn  toils  us  that  tlie 
custom  was  not  altogether  extinct  in  his  time,  near  bis  dweUiii^ 
in  the  county  of  Surrey,  *' where  the  maidens  yearly  planted 
and  decked  the  graves  of  their  defunct  sweethearts  with  loso- 
bushes."  And  Camden  likewise  remarks,  in  hi-i  Britannia: 
"Here  is  also  a  certain  custom  observed  time  out  (jf  mind,  of 
planting  rose-trees  upon  the  graves,  especially  by  the  young 
men  and  maids  who  have  lost  their  loves ;  so  that  this  church- 
yard is  now  full  of  them." 

When  the  deceased  had  been  unhappy  iu  their  loves,  emblems 
of  a  more  gloomy  character  were  used,  such  as  the  yew  and 


SURAL  FUNERALS. 


109 


mge. 
truly 
to 
ver," 
com- 
live, 
fair 

HCS.'' 

with 
the 
tiic 

Oti'8 

to 


cypress;  and  if  flowers  were  strewn,  they  were  of  the  most 
melancholy  colors.  Thus,  in  poems  by  Thomas  Stanley,  Esq., 
(published  in  1651,)  is  the  following  stanza: 


Yet  itrew 
Upon  my  dismall  grave 
Such  offerings  as  you  have, 

Forsaken  cypresse  and  «nd  yewe; 
For  kinder  flowers  can  take  no  birth 
Or  growth  from  such  unhappy  earth. 


In  "  The  Maid's  Tragedy,"  a  pathetic  little  air  is  introduced, 
lustrative  of  this  mode  of  decoratic 
who  have  been  disappointed  in  love. 


illustrative  of  this  mode  of  decorating  the  funerals  of  females 


Lay  a  garland  on  my  hearse 

Of  the  dismal  yew, 
Maidens  willow  branches  wear, 

Say  I  died  true. 
My  love  was  false,  but  I  was  firm. 

From  my  hour  of  birth, 
Upon  my  buried  body  lie 

Lightly,  gentle  earth. 

The  natural  efl^ect  of  sorrow  over  the  dead  is  to  refine  and 
elevate  the  mind ;  and  we  have  a  proof  of  it  in  the  purity  of 
sentiment,  and  the  unaflFected  elegance  of  thought,  which  per- 
vaded the  whole  of  these  funeral  observances.  Thus,  it  was 
an  especial  precaution,  that  none  but  sweet-scented  evergreens 
and  flowers  should  be  employed.  The  intention  seems  to  have 
been  to  soften  the  horrors  of  the  tomb,  to  beguile  the  mind 
from  brooding  over  the  disgraces  of  perishing  mortality,  and 
to  associate  the  memory  of  the  deceased  with  the  most  delicate 
and  beautiful  objects  in  Nature.  There  is  a  dismal  process 
going  on  in  the  grave,  ere  dust  can  return  to  its  kindred  dust, 
which  the  imagination  shrinks  from  contemplating ;  and  we 
seek  still  to  think  of  the  form  we  have  loved,  with  those  refined 
associations  which  it  awakened  when  blooming  before  us  in 
youth  and  beauty.  "Lay  her  i'  the  earth,"  says  Laertes  of 
bis  virgin  sister, 

And  from  her  fair  and  unpolluted  flesh 
May  violets  apring. 

Heirick,  also,  in  his  "  Dirge  of  Jephtha,"  pours  forth  a  fra- 
grant flow  of  poetical  thought  and  image,  which  in  a  manner 
embalms  the  dead  in  the  recollections  of  the  living. 


i 


:  *il. 


■A 


110  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

Sleep  In  thy  peace,  thy  bed  of  eplce, 

And  make  thie  place  all  I'aradlse. 

May  iweets  grow  here :  and  BinoUe  from  henoa 

Kat  frankinceimo. 
Let  balme  and  cassia  seiul  tholr  Kcent  a; 

From  out  thy  maiden-monument! 

May  all  shie  maids  at  wonted  hours 

Come  forth  to  strew  thy  tomlic  with  (lowers! 

May  virgins,  when  they  come  to  mourn, 

Malc-inccnse  burn 
Upon  thine  altnr,  then  return. 
And  leave  thee  sleeping  in  thine  "im I 

I  might  crowd  my  pages  with  extracts  from  the  older  British 
poets,  who  wrote  when  tliese  rites  were  more  prevalent,  and  de- 
lighted frequently  to  allude  to  them  ;  but  I  have  already  quoted 
more  than  is  necessary.  I  cannot,  however,  refrain  from  giving 
a  passage  from  Shakspeare,  even  though  it  should  appear  trite, 
which  illustrates  the  emblematical  meaning  often  conveyed  in 
these  floral  tributes,  and  at  the  same  time  possesses  that  magic 
of  language  and  appositeness  of  imagery  for  which  he  stands 
pre-eminent. 

With  fairest  flowers, 
Whilst  Bumraer  lasts,  and  I  live  here,  Fidele, 
I'll  sweeten  thy  sad  grave ;  thou  shall  not  lack 
The  flower  that's  like  thy  face,  pale  primrose;  nor 
The  azured  harebell  like  thy  veins;  no,  nor 
The  leaf  of  eglantine;  whom  not  to  slander. 
Outaweetened  not  thy  breath. 

There  is  certainly  something  more  aflfecting  in  these  prompt 
and  spontaneous  offerings  of  nature,  than  in  the  most  costly 
monuments  of  art ;  the  hand  strews  the  flower  while  the  heart 
is  warm,  and  the  tear  falls  on  the  grave  as  affection  is  binding 
the  osier  round  the  sod ;  but  pathos  expires  under  the  slow 
labor  of  the  chisel,  and  is  chilled  among  the  cold  conceits  of 
sculptured  marble. 

It  is  greatly  to  be  regretted,  that  a  custom  so  truly  elegant 
and  touching  has  disappeared  from  general  use,  and  exists  only 
in  the  most  remote  and  insignificant  villages.  But  it  seems  as 
if  poetical  custom  always  shuns  the  walks  of  cultivated  society. 
In  proportion  as  people  grow  polite,  they  cease  to  be  poetical. 
They  talk  of  poetry,  but  they  have  learnt  to  check  its  free  im- 
pulses, to  distrust  its  sallying  emotions,  and  to  supply  its  most 
affecting  and  picturesque  usages,  by  studied  form  and  pompous 
ceremonial.     Few  pageants  can  be  more  cutely  and  frigid  than 


|p' 


RURAL   FUNERALS. 


Ill 


an  English  funeral  in  town.  It  is  made  up  of  show  and  pjloomy 
parade  :  mourning  carriages,  mourning  horses,  mourning  plumes, 
and  hireling  mourners,  who  make  a  mockery  of  grief.  "  There 
is  a  grave  digged,"  says  Jeremy  Taylor,  "  and  a  solemn  mourn- 
ing, and  a  great  talk  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  when  tlie  dales 
are  finished,  they  shall  be,  and  they  shall  be  remembered  no 
more."  The  associate  in  the  gay  and  crowded  city  is  soon  for- 
gotten ;  the  hurrying  succession  of  new  intimates  and  new 
pleasures  effaces  him  from  our  minds,  and  the  very  scenes  and 
circles  in  which  he  moved  are  incessantly  fluctuating.  But 
funerals  in  the  country  are  solemnly  impressive.  The  stroke  of 
death  makes  a  wider  space  in  the  village  circle,  and  is  an  awful 
event  in  the  tranquil  uniformity  of  rural  life.  The  passing  bell 
tolls  its  knell  in  every  ear ;  it  steals  with  its  pervading  melan- 
choly over  hill  and  vale,  and  saddens  all  the  landscape. 

The  fixed  and  unchanging  features  of  the  country,  also,  per- 
petuate the  memory  of  the  friend  with  whom  we  once  enjoyed 
them ;  who  was  the  companion  of  our  most  retired  walks,  and 
gave  animation  to  every  lonely  scene.  His  idea  is  associated 
with  every  charm  of  Nature :  we  hear  his  voice  in  the  echo 
which  he  once  delighted  to  awaken  ;  his  spirit  haunts  the  grove 
which  he  once  frequented ;  we  think  of  him  in  the  wild  upland 
solitude,  or  amidst  the  pensive  beauty  of  the  valley.  In  the 
freshness  of  joyous  morning,  we  remember  his  beaming  smiles 
and  bounding  gayety  ;  and  when  sober  evening  returns,  with  its 
gathering  shadows  and  subduing  quiet,  we  call  to  mind  many 
a  twilight  hour  of  gentle  talk  and  swect-souled  melancholy. 


^:il: 


Bach  lonely  place  shall  him  restore, 
For  him  the  tear  be  duly  shed, 

Beloved,  till  life  can  charm  no  more. 
And  mouru'd  till  pity's  self  be  dead. 


li: 


Another  cause  that  perpetuates  the  memory  of  the  deceased 
in  the  country,  is  that  the  grave  is  more  immediately  in  sight 
of  the  survivors.  They  pass  it  on  their  way  to  i)rayer  ;  it  meets 
their  eyes  when  their  hearts  are  softened  by  the  exercises  of 
devotion  ;  they  linger  about  it  on  the  Sabbath,  when  the  mind 
is  disengaged  from  worldly  cares,  and  most  disposed  to  turn 
aside  from  present  pleasures  and  present  loves,  and  to  sit  down 
among  the  solemn  mementos  of  the  past.  In  North  Wales, 
the  peasantry  kneel  and  pray  over  the  f;raves  of  their  deceased 
friends  for  several  Sundays  after  the  interment ;  and  where 
^hp  tender  rite  of  strewing  and  plautiug  flowers  is  still  practised, 


112 


THE  SKETCn-IiOOK. 


';  i 


it  is  always  renewpcl  on  Kastor,  Whitsuntide,  and  othor  festj 
vals,  when  the  sc{isf)n  hrinjis  the  {'oinpaiiion  of  former  festivity 
more  vividly  to  mind.  It  is  also  inv.'inal)ly  performed  Ity  the 
nearest  relatives  and  friends  ;  no  menials  nor  iiireliniis  nre  em- 
ployed, and  if  a  neijjhbor  yields  assistance,  it  wo»dd  be  decnica 
an  insult  to  offer  compensation. 

I  have  dwelt  wpon  this  beautiful  rural  custom,  because,  as  it 
is  one  of  the  last,  so  is  it  one  of  the  holiest  ofTiccs  of  love.  The 
grave  is  the  ordeal  of  true  affection.  It  is  there  tiiat  tlie  divine 
passion  of  the  soul  manifests  its  superiority  to  the  instinetive 
impulse  of  mere  animal  attachment.  The  latter  must  be  con- 
tinually refreshed  and  kept  alive  by  the  presence  of  its  object; 
but  the  love  that  is  seated  in  the  soul  can  live  on  long  remem- 
brance. The  mere  inclinations  of  sense  languish  and  deeliiio 
with  the  charms  which  excited  them,  and  turn  with  shuddering 
disgust  from  the  dismal  precincts  of  tlie  toml) ;  but  it  is  tlienep 
that  truly  spiritual  aiTection  rises  purified  from  every  sensnnl 
desire,  and  returns,  like  a  holy  flame,  to  illumine  and  sanctify 
the  heart  of  the  survivor. 

The  sorrow  for  the  dead  is  the  only  sorrow  from  which  we 
refuse  to  be  divorced.  Every  other  wound  we  seek  to  iieal  — 
every  other  afltliction  to  forget ;  but  tiiis  wound  we  consider  it 
ft  duty  to  keep  open  —  this  affliction  we  cherish  and  brood  over 
in  solitude.  Where  is  the  mother  who  would  willingly  forgot 
the  infant  that  perished  like  a  blossom  from  her  arms,  though 
every  recollection  is  a  pang?  Where  is  the  child  that  would 
willingly  forget  the  most  tender  of  parents,  though  to  remember 
be  but  to  lament?  Who,  even  in  the  hour  of  agony,  would  for- 
get the  friend  over  whom  he  mourns?  W  Vo,  even  when  the 
tomb  is  closing  upon  the  remains  of  her  he  most  loved ;  when 
he  feels  his  heart,  as  it  were,  crushed  in  the  closing  of  its  por- 
tal ;  would  accept  of  consolation  that  must  be  bought  by  forget- 
fulness?  —  No,  the  love  which  survives  the  tomb  is  one  of  the 
noblest  attributes  of  the  soul.  If  it  has  its  woes,  it  has  likewise 
its  delights ;  and  when  the  overwhelming  burst  of  grief  is  calmed 
into  the  gentle  tear  of  recoil  action  —  when  the  sudden  anguish 
and  the  convulsive  agony  over  the  present  ruins  of  all  tliat 
we  most  loved,  is  softened  away  into  pensive  meditation  on 
all  that  it  was  in  the  days  of  its  loveliness  —  who  would  root 
out  such  a  sorrow  from  the  heart?  Though  it  may  sometimes 
throw  a  passing  cloud  over  the  bright  hour  of  gayety,  or  spread 
a  deeper  sadness  over  the  hour  of  gloom  ;  yet  who  would  ex- 
change it  even  for  the  song  of  pleasure,  or  the  burst  of  revelry? 
No,  there  is  a  voice  from  the  tomb  sweeter  than  song.     There 


BURAL  FVNERALB. 


113 


is  a  remembrance  of  the  dead,  to  which  we  turn  even  from  the 
charms  of  the  living.  Oh,  the  grave !  —  the  grave  I  —  It  buries 
every  error  —  covers  every  defect  —  extinguishes  every  resent- 
ment !  From  its  peaceful  bosom  spring  none  but  fond  regrets 
and  tender  recollections.  Who  can  look  down  upon  the  grave 
tjven  of  an  enemy  and  not  feel  a  compunctious  throb,  that 
he  should  ever  have  warred  with  the  poor  handful  of  earth  that 
lies  mouldering  before  him  ? 

But  the  grave  of  those  we  loved  —  what  a  place  for  medita- 
tion !  Tliere  it  is  that  we  call  up  in  long  review  the  whole 
history  of  virtue  and  gentleness,  and  the  thousand  endearments 
lavished  upon  us  almost  unheeded  in  the  daily  intercourse  of 
iiitiiiuicy  ;  —  there  it  is  ihat  we  dwell  upon  the  tenderness,  the 
soli'Min,  awful  tenderness  of  the  psiitinjr  scene.  The  bed  of 
ilcuth,  with  all  its  stiUc'd  t;i'ic'fs  —  its  noiseh'ss  atti'udauce  —  its 
iiiiite,  wtitcliful  assiduities.  Tlie  last  test! nion it's  of  expiring 
love!  The  feeble,  fluttering,  thrilling,  oh  !  how  thrilling  !  |)r('sfl- 
nre  of  the  hand.  The  faint,  faltering  accents,  struggling  in  death 
to  give  one  more  assurance  of  siffection !  The  hist  fund  look  of 
the  ghizing  eye,  turned  upon  us  even  from  the  threshold  of 
existence. 

Ay,  go  to  the  grave  of  buried  love,  and  meditate !  There 
settle  the  account  with  thy  conscience  for  every  past  benefit 
unrequited,  every  past  endearment  unregarded,  of  that  departed 
being,  who  can  never  —  never  —  never  return  to  be  soothed  by 
thy  contrition  ! 

If  thou  art  a  child,  and  hast  ever  added  a  sorrow  to  i  le  soul, 
or  a  furrow  to  the  silvered  brow  of  an  affectionate  parent  —  if 
thou  art  a  luisband,  «nd  hast  ever  caused  the  fond  bosom  that 
ventured  its  whole  happiness  in  th}'  arms,  to  doubt  one  moment 
of  thy  kindness  or  thy  truth  —  if  thou  art  a  friend,  and  hast 
ever  wronged,  in  thought,  or  word,  or  deed,  the  spirit  that 
generously  confided  in  thee  —  if  thou  art  a  lover  and  hast  ever 
given  one  unmerited  pang  to  that  true  heart  which  now  lies  cold 
aud  still  beneath  thy  feet;  then  be  sure  that  every  unkind  look, 
every  ungracious  word,  every  ungentle  action,  will  come  throng- 
ing back  upon  thy  memory,  and  knocking  dolefully  at  thy  soul 
—  theu  be  sure  that  thou  wilt  lie  down  sorrowing  and  repent- 
ant on  the  grave,  and  utter  the  unheard  groan,  aud  pour  the 
unavailing  tear  —  more  deep,  more  bitter,  because  unheard  and 
unavailing. 

Then  weave  thy  chaplet  of  flowers,  and  strew  the  beauties  of 
nature  about  the  grave  ;  console  thy  broken  spirit,  if  thou  canst, 
with  these   tender,  yet  f utiis   tiibutes  of   regret ;  —  but   take 


lii 


1 .     I 


■\ ,  I 


ii\ 


' 


'     !il 


.    r  i 


114 


THE  SKETCU-BOOK. 


warning  by  the  bittern-ss  of  this  thy  contrite  affliction  over 
the  dead,  and  henceforth  be  more  faithful  and  affectionate  in  the 
discharge  of  thy  duties  to  the  living. 


In  writing  the  preceding  article  it  was  not  intended  to  give 
a  full  detail  of  the  funeriil  customs  of  the  English  peasantry, 
but  merely  to  furnish  a  few  hints  and  quotations  illustrative 
of  particular  rites,  to  i)e  appended,  by  way  of  note,  to  another 
pap  ■,  which  has  been  witliheld.  The  article  swelled  insensi- 
bly into  its  present  form,  and  this  is  mentioned  as  an  apology 
for  so  brief  and  casual  a  notice  of  these  usages,  after  they  have 
been  amply  and  learnedly  investigated  in  other  works. 

I  n)ust  observe,  also,  that  1  am  well  aware  that  this  custom 
of  adorning  graves  with  (lowers  prevails  in  other  countries  be- 
6ides  England.  Indeed,  in  some  it  is  much  more  genera!,  and 
is  ob-erved  even  by  the  rich  and  fashionable  ;  but  it  is  then 
api  o  lose  its  simplicity,  and  to  degenerate  into  affectatioi:. 
Bright,  in  his  travels  in  Lower  Hungary,  tells  of  vnonuments 
of  marble,  and  recesses  formed  for  retirement,  with  seats 
placed  among  l)owers  of  greon-house  plants ;  and  that  the 
graves  generally  are  covered  with  the  gayest  flowers  of  the 
season,  lie  gives  m  casual  picture  of  filial  piety,  which  I  can- 
not but  descril)e,  for  1  trust  it  is  as  useful  as  it  is  delightful  to 
illustrate  the  amiable  virtues  of  the  sex.  "  When  I  was  at  Ber- 
lin," says  he,  "■  I  followed  tlie  celeluated  IfPhind  to  the  grave. 
Mingled  vvitli  some  pomp,  you  migiit  trace  much  real  feeling. 
In  the  midst  of  tijc  ceremony,  my  attention  was  attracted  by  a 
young  woman  who  Ltood  on  a  mound  of  earth,  newly  covered 
v^ith  turf,  which  she  anxiously  protected  from  the  feet  of  the 
passing  crowd.  It  was  the  tomb  of  her  parent ;  and  the  ligiuc 
of  this  affectionate  daughter  presented  a  monument  more  strik- 
ing than  the  most  costly  work  of  art." 

I  will  barely  add  an  instance  of  sepulchral  decoration  that  I 
once  met  with  among  the  mountains  of  Switzerland.  It  was 
at  the  village  of  (iersau,  wiiich  stands  on  the  borders  of  the 
lake  of  Luzerne,  at  the  foot  of  Mount  liigi.  It  was  once  the 
capital  o!'  a  miuiature  republic,  shut  up  between  the  Alps  and 
the  lake,  and  accessible  on  the  land  side  (^nly  by  footpaths. 
The  wh  )le  force  of  the  republic  did  not  exceed  six  hundred 
fighting  men  ;  and  a  few  miles  of  circumference,  scooped  out, 
as  it  wei'e,  from  the  bosom  of  the  mountains,  comprised  its 
ticrritory.     The  village  of  Gersau  seemed   separated  from  the 


;      / 


'        \ 


ri  '•  if- 


!  i! ;  ii 


THE  INN  KITCHEN. 


115 


rest  of  the  world,  and  retained  the  golden  simplicity  of  a  purer 
acre.  It  had  a  small  church,  with  a  burying-ground  adjoiniug. 
At  the  heads  of  the  graves  were  placed  crosses  of  wood  or  iron. 
On  some  were  affixed  miniatures,  rudely  executed,  but  evidently 
attempts  at  likenesses  of  the  deceased.  On  the  crosses  were 
hung  chaplots  of  flowers,  some  witliering,  others  fresh,  as  if 
occasionally  renewed.  1  paused  with  interest  at  this  scene ; 
I  felt  that  1  was  at  the  source  of  poetical  description,  for  these 
were  the  beautiful,  but  unaffected  offerings  of  the  heart,  which 
poets  are  fain  to  record.  In  a  gayer  and  more  populous  place, 
I  should  have  suspected  tiicm  to  have  been  suggested  by 
factitious  sentiment,  derived  from  books ;  but  the  good  people 
of  Gcrsau  knew  little  of  books  ;  there  was  not  a  novel  nov 
a  love  poem  in  the  village  ;  and  I  question  whether  any  peas- 
ant of  the  place  dreamt,  while  he  was  twining  a  fresh  chap- 
let  for  the  grave  of  his  mistress,  that  he  was  fulfilling  one  o'' 
the  most  fanciful  rites  of  poetical  devotion,  and  that  he  wa* 
pr  L'tically  a  poet. 


n 


THE  INN   KITCHEN. 


ShaU  1  not  take  mine  cuae  in  mine  inn?  —  Fahtaff^ 

Dl'uino  a  journey  that  I  once  made  through  the  NetherlandSf 
I  had  arrived  one  evening  at  the  Pomvie  d'Or,  the  principal 
inn  of  a  small  Klemish  village.  It  was  after  the  hour  of  the 
table  d'hote,  so  that  1  was  obliged  to  make  a  solitary  supper 
from  the  relics  of  its  ampler  board.  The  weather  was  chilly; 
I  was  seated  alone  in  one  end  of  a  great  gloomy  dining-room, 
and  my  repast  being  over,  1  iuid  the  prospect  before  me  of  a 
long  dull  evening,  without  any  visible  means  of  enlivening  it. 
I  sununoned  mini;  host,  and  requested  something  to  read  ;  he 
brought  me  the  whole  literar}'  stock  of  his  household,  a  Dutch 
family  Bible,  an  almanac  in  the  same  language,  and  a  number 
of  old  Paris  uewspai)ers.  As  I  sat  dozing  over  one  of  the  lat- 
ter, reading  old  news  and  stale  criticisms,  my  ear  was  now 
and  then  struck  with  bursts  of  laughter  which  seemed  to  pro- 
ceed from  the  kitchen.  ICvery  one  tluit  has  travelled  on  the 
Continent  must  know  how  favorite  a  resort  tlie  kitchen  of  a 
coniilry  inn  is  to  the  middle  and  inferior  order  of  travellers ; 
parti(!ularly  in  that  e(piivocal  kind  of  weather  when  a  fire  be- 
eouiea  agreeable   toward   evaumg.     I   threw    aside   the    uewf 


f  ,'  i|    ait 


li ''  ( 


lilt    ! 


it 


'i  'il      1 


116 


TBS  SKETCB-BOOK. 


paper,  and  explored  my  way  to  the  kitchen,  to  take  a  peep  at 
the  group  that  appeared  to  be  so  merry.  It  was  composed 
partly  of  travellers  who  had  arrived  some  hours  before  in  a 
diligence,  and  partly  of  the  usual  attendants  and  hangers-on  of 
inns.  They  were  seatid  round  a  great  burnished  atove,  that 
might  have  been  mistaken  for  an  altar,  at  which  they  were  wor- 
shipping. It  was  covered  with  various  kitchen  vessels  of  re- 
splendent brightness  ;  among  which  steamed  and  hissed  a  huge 
copper  tea-kettle.  A  large  lamp  threw  a  strong  mass  of  light 
upon  the  group,  bringing  out  many  odd  features  in  strong 
relief.  Its  yellow  rays  partially  illumined  the  spacious  kitchen, 
dying  duskily  away  into  remote  corners  except  where  they 
settled  in  mellow  radiance  on  the  broad  side  of  a  flitch  of  bacon, 
or  were  reflected  back  from  well-scoured  utensils  that  gleamed 
from  the  midst  of  obscurity.  A  strapping  Flemish  lass,  with 
long  golden  pendants  in  hei  ears,  and  a  necklace  with  a  golden 
heart  suspended  to  it,  was  the  presiding  priestess  of  the  temple. 

Many  of  the  company  were  furnished  with  pipes,  and  most 
of  them  with  some  kind  of  evening  potation.  I  found  their 
mirth  was  occasioned  by  anecdotes  which  a  little  swarthy 
Frenchmp.n,  with  a  dry  weazen  face  and  large  whiskers,  was 
giving  of  his  love  adventures ;  at  the  end  of  each  of  which 
there  was  one  of  those  bursts  of  honest  unceremonious  laugh- 
ter, in  which  a  man  indulges  in  that  temple  of  true  liberty,  an 
inn. 

As  I  had  no  better  mode  of  getting  through  a  tedious  blus- 
tering evening,  I  took  my  seat  near  the  stove,  and  listened  to 
a  variety  of  traveller's  tales,  some  very  extravagant,  and  most 
very  dull.  All  of  them,  however,  have  faded  from  my  treach- 
erous memory,  except  one,  which  I  will  endeavor  to  relate. 
I  fear,  however,  it  derived  its  chief  zest  from  the  manner  in 
which  it  was  told,  and  the  peculiar  air  and  appearance  of  the 
narrator.  He  was  a  corpulent  old  Swiss,  who  had  the  look  of 
a  veteran  traveller.  He  was  dressed  in  a  tarnished  green  trav- 
elling-jacket, with  a  broad  belt  round  his  waist,  and  a  pair  of 
overalls  with  buttons  from  the  hips  to  the  ankles.  He  was  of 
a  full,  rubicund  countenance,  with  a  double  chin,  aquiline  nose, 
and  a  pleasant  twinkling  eye.  His  hair  was  light,  and  curled 
from  under  an  old  green  velvet  travelling-cap,  stuck  on  one 
side  of  his  head.  He  was  interrupted  more  than  once  by  the 
arrival  of  pcuests,  or  the  remarks  of  his  auditors ;  and  paused, 
now  and  then,  to  replenish  his  pipe  ;  at  which  times  he  had 
generally  a  roguish  leer,  and  a  sly  joke,  for  the  buxom  kitchen 
maid. 


If 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM. 


117 


I  wish  my  reader  could  imagine  the  old  fellow  lolling  in  a 
huge  arm-chair,  one  arm  a-kimbo,  the  other  holding  a  curiously 
twisted  tobacco-pipe,  formed  of  genuine  4cume  de  mer,  deco- 
rated with  silver  chain  and  silken  tassel  —  his  head  cocked  on 
one  side,  and  a  whimsical  cut  of  the  eye  occasionally,  as  he 
related  the  following  story. 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDl   .ROOM. 
A  traveller's  tale.' 

He  that  supper  for  is  dight, 

He  lyes  full  cold,  I  trow,  thin  night! 

Yestreen  to  chamber  1  him  U-d, 

This  uight  U  ray-steel  has  made  his  bed  I 

Sir  Eger,  Sir  Orahahe,  and  Sir  Orat-strkl. 

On  the  summit  of  one  of  the  heights  of  the  Odenwald,  a  wild 
and  romantic  tract  of  Upper  Germany,  that  lies  not  far  from 
the  confluence  of  the  Main  and  the  Rhine,  there  stood,  many, 
many  years  since,  the  Castle  of  the  Baron  Von  Landshort.  It 
is  now  quite  fallen  to  decay,  and  almost  Iniried  among  beech 
trees  and  dark  firs ;  above  which,  however,  its  old  watch-tower 
may  still  be  seen  struggling,  like  the  former  possessor  I  have 
mentioned,  to  carry  a  high  head,  and  look  down  upon  a  neigh- 
boring country 

The  Baron  was  a  dry  brancu  of  the  great  family  of  Katzen- 
ellenbogen,''  and  inherited  the  relics  of  the  property,  and  all 
the  pride  of  his  aucestcro.  1  hough  the  warlike  disposition  of 
his  predecessors  had  m\ich  impaired  the  family  possessions,  yet 
the  Baron  still  end'^avored  to  keep  up  some  show  of  former 
state.  The  times  were  peaceable,  and  the  German  nobles,  in 
general,  had  abandoned  their  inconvenient  old  castles,  perched 
like  eagle's  nests  among  the  mountains,  and  had  built  more 
convenient  residences  in  the  valleys ;  still  the  Baron  remained 
proudly  drawn  up  in  his  little  fortress,  cherishing  with  heredi- 
tary inveteracy  all  the  old  family  feuds ;  so  that  he  was  on  ill 

'  The  cmdile  reader,  well  versed  In  good-for-nothing  lore,  will  perceive  that  the 
above  Tale  mutt  have  been  suggested  to  the  old  Swiss  by  a  little  French  anecdote, 
uclrcuni^tniK'o  ruid  to  hnw  t:il;cii  phu'c  :\*  I'nrlH. 

'  i.e.,  (^!at'b  Elhow  —  the  name  of  u  luinily  of  those  parts,  very  powerful  In  former 
tlmtMi.  The  appellation,  we  are  told,  wan  ^ivou  iu  compUmeut  to  a  p««rl«M  daoM 
of  ih«  fatnily,  celobrtMed  fur  a  &m  Mrm. 


M 


■  P 


m 


ii 


!■    '< 


118 


THE    SKETCH-BOOK. 


terras  with  some  of  his  nearest  neighbors,  on  account  of  disputes 
that  had  happened  between  their  great-great-grandfathers. 

The  Baron  had  but  one  child,  a  daughter  ;  but  Nature,  when 
she  grants  but  one  child,  always  compensates  by  making  it  a 
prodigy ;  and  so  it  was  with  the  daughter  of  the  Baron.  All 
the  nurses,  gossips,  and  country  cousins,  assured  her  father 
that  she  had  not  iier  equal  for  beauty  in  all  Germany ;  and  who 
should  know  better  than  thoy?  She  had,  moreover,  been 
brought  up  with  great  care,  under  the  superintendence  of  two 
maiden  aunts,  who  had  spent  some  years  of  their  early  life  at 
one  of  the  little  German  courts,  and  were  skilled  in  all  the 
branches  of  knowledge  necessary  to  the  education  of  a  fine 
lady.  Under  their  instructions,  she  became  a  miracle  of  ac- 
complishments. By  the  time  she  was  eighteen  she  could  em- 
broider to  admiration,  and  had  worked  whole  histories  of  the 
saints  in  tapestry,  with  such  strength  of  expression  in  their 
countenances,  that  they  looked  like  so  many  souls  in  purga- 
tory. She  could  read  without  great  diflicully,  and  had  spelled 
her  way  through  sever&l  church  legends,  and  almost  all  the 
chivalric  wonders  of  the  Heldeuuuch.  She  had  even  ma'le 
considerable  proficiency  in  writing,  could  sign  her  own  name 
without  missing  a  letter,  and  so  legibly,  that  her  aunts  could 
read  it  without  spectacles.  She  excelled  in  making  little  elegant 
good-fcr-nothing  lady-like  knicknacks  of  all  kinds  ;  was  versed 
in  the  most  abstruse  dancing  of  the  day ;  played  a  number  of 
airs  on  the  harp  and  guitar ;  and  knew  all  the  tender  ballaila  of 
the  Minnie-lieders  by  heart. 

Her  aunts,  too,  having  been  great  flirts  and  coquettes  in  their 
younger  days,  were  admirably  calculated  to  be  vigilant  guard- 
ians and  strict  censors  of  the  conduct  of  their  niece ;  for  there 
is  no  duenna  so  rigidly  prudent,  and  inexorably  decorous,  as  a 
superannuated  coquette.  She  was  rarely  suffered  out  of  their 
sight;  never  went  beyoiv^  the  domains  of  the  castle,  unless  well 
attended,  or  rather  y,A!  tvatched;  iiad  continual  lectures  read 
to  her  about  strict  decoriiUi /.li  i  niplict  obedience;  and,  as  to 
the  men  —  pah!  she  was  taui  S^t  to  hoUl  them  at  such  a  distance 
and  in  such  absolute  dist.ast,  V^xf,  unless  properly  anthorized, 
she  would  not  have  casi  a  ghmw  i  pon  the  handsoiiK -.it  cavalier 
in  the  world  —  no,  not  if  '.c      jjc  ea;  i  dy:"j;  at  her  feet. 

The  good  effects  of  t' -v  systeu;  were  wonderfully  apparent. 
The  young   lady    was  a  jjutioru  of  'locility   and  correctness. 


While  others  were  wasting  l'?eir 
world,  and  liable  to  be  pi  i(Jf 
hand,  she  was  coyly  blooming 


s.vvpihesb  HI 
il  •'  1  thrown 
intc  fresh  and 


the  glare  of 
aside 


the 
by  every 
lovely  wonian- 


U 


llll 


THE  SPECTRE   BRIDEGROOM. 


119 


hood  under  the  protection  of  those  immaculate  spinsters,  like 
a  rose-bud  blushing  forth  amouiv  "uardian  thorns.  Her  aunts 
looked  upon  her  with  pride  and  exultation,  and  vaunted  that 
though  all  the  other  young  ladies  in  the  world  might  go  astray, 
yet,  thank  Heaven,  nothing  of  the  kind  could  happen  to  the 
heiress  of  Katzenellenbogen. 

But  however  scantily  the  Baron  Von  Landshort  might  be 
provided  with  children,  his  houseiiold  was  by  no  means  a  small 
one,  for  Providence  had  enriched  him  with  abundance  of  poor 
relations.  They,  one  nud  all,  possessed  the  affectionate  dispo- 
sition common  to  hiin'b!i(  relatives;  were  wonderfully  attached 
to  the  Baron,  and  took  every  i)ossible  occasion  to  come  in 
snanns  and  eidiven  the  castle.  All  fnmily  festivals  were  com- 
memorated by  these  good  people  at  the  Baron's  expense;  and 
when  they  were  fille<l  with  good  ciieer,  they  would  declare  that 
there  was  nothing  on  earth  so  delightlul  as  these  family  meet- 
ings, these  jubilees  of  the  heart. 

The  Baron,  though  a  small  man,  had  a  large  soul,  and  it 
swelled  with  satisfaction  at  tiie  consciousness  of  being  the 
greatest  man  in  the  little  world  about  him.  He  loved  to  tell 
long  stories  about  the  stark  oUl  warriors  whose  portraits  looked 
grimly  down  from  the  walls  aiounil,  and  he  found  no  listeners 
equal  to  those  who  fed  at  his  expense.  He  was  much  given  to 
the  marvellous,  and  a  tirm  beli(!ver  in  all  those  supernatural 
tales  with  which  every  mountain  and  valley  in  Geiniany 
abounds.  The  faith  of  his  guests  even  exceeded  his  own  :  they 
listened  to  every  tale  of  wonder  with  open  eyes  and  mouth, 
and  never  failed  to  be  astonished,  even  though  rei)eated  for 
the  hundredth  time.  Thus  lived  the  Barcn  \'on  I>;uidshort, 
the  oracle  of  his  table,  the  absolute  monarch  of  his  little  terri- 
tory, and  happy,  above  all  things,  in  the  persuasion  that  he 
was  the  wisest  man  of  the  agi". 

At  the  tiint!  of  which  my  stoi'y  treats,  there  was  a  great 
family-gathering  at  the  castle,  on  an  affair  of  the  utmost  im- 
portance: —  it  was  to  receive  the  destined  bridegroom  of  the 
Baron's  daughter.  A  negotiation  had  been  carried  on  bi'tweeu 
the  father  and  an  old  nobh'inan  of  Bavaria,  to  unite  the  dignity 
of  their  houses  by  the  marriage  of  their  children  The  [jrelimi- 
naries  had  been  conducted  with  proper  i)unctilio.  The  young 
peo[)le  were  betrothed  without  seeing  eacli  other,  and  the  time 
was  appointed  for  the  marriage  cercnioiiy.  The  young  Count 
Von  Altenburg  had  ))een  rec:iil(Hl  fron»  the  army  lor  the  pur- 
pose, and  was  actually  on  his  way  to  the  l>aron's  to  receive 
his  bride.     Missives  iiad  even    been  received  from  him,  Irom 


f    .  ,^  >i 


'lii'Mi 


V(' 


1 

i 

i   ■ 

'   1 

- 

'■'  -i 

j 

,1 

m 

1 

120 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


!    •  I 


i    I 


Wurtzburg,  where  he  was  accidentally  detained,  mentioning  the 
day  and  hour  when  he  might  be  expected  to  arrive. 

The  castle  was  in  a  tumult  of  preparation  to  give  him  a 
suitable  welcome.  The  fair  bride  had  been  decked  out  with 
uncommon  care.  The  two  aunts  had  superintended  her  toilet, 
and  quarrelled  the  whole  worning  about  every  article  of  lier 
dress.  The  young  lady  liad  taken  advantage  of  tlieir  contest 
to  follow  the  bent  of  her  own  taste ;  and  fortunately  it  was  a 
good  one.  She  looked  as  lovely  as  youthful  bridegroom  could 
desire ;  and  the  flutter  of  expectation  heightened  the  lustre  of 
her  charm? 

The  suffusions  that  mantled  her  face  and  neck,  the  gentle 
heaving  of  the  bosom,  the  eye  now  and  then  lost  in  reverie,  all 
betrayed  the  soft  tumult  that  was  going  on  in  her  little  heart. 
The  aunts  were  continually  hovering  around  her ;  for  maiden 
aunts  are  apt  to  take  great  interest  in  affairs  of  this  nature; 
they  were  giving  her  a  world  of  staid  counsel  how  to  deport 
herself,  what  to  say,  and  in  what  manner  to  receive  the  ex- 
pected lover. 

T\.  9  Baron  was  no  less  busied  in  preparations.  He  had,  in 
truth,  nothing  exactly  to  do ;  but  he  was  natu  "illy  a  fumin;,', 
V  stling  little  man,  and  could  not  remain  passive  when  all  tli?, 
v/  'jld  was  in  a  hurry.  He  worried  from  top  to  bottom  ol  the 
t  dtle,  with  an  air  of  infinite  anxiety ;  he  continually  called  the 
servants  from  thiir  work  to  exhort  them  to  be  diligent,  and 
buzzed  about  evr  ry  hall  and  chamber,  as  idly  restless  and  im- 
portunate as  a  blao-bottle  fly  of  a  warm  i-ummcr^s  day. 

In  the  mean  time,  the  fatted  calf  h jd  -/Otni  l.ilk-i ;  the  forests 
had  rung  with  the  clamor  of  the  huntsr'i^n;  the  kitchen  was 
crowded  with  good  cheer;  the  cells  i'?.  nad  yielded  up  whole 
oceans  of  Rhein-wein  and  Ferne-weiii,  au.'  tvpu  he  yreat  Hei- 
delberg tun  had  been  laid  under  contribu\';n"i.  Ev<iry  tluDg 
was  ready  tu  receive  the  distinguished  gue  ;.  *vitii  iS'ins  nitn 
Braus in  the  true  spirit  of  German  hcripitalit)  —but  "^hc 
delayed  to  make  his  appearance.  YIaiy  rolled 
sun  that  had  poured  his  downward  rays  upon 
of  the  Odenwaid,  now  just  glearr  id  along  the  summits  o^'  the 
mountains.  The  Baron  mouuted  tne  highest  tower,  and  s^^ained 
his  eyes  in  hope  of  catchinT  a  di;^tant  sight  of  the  Count  and 
his  attendants.  Once  he  thought  he  beheld  them ;  the  sound 
of  horns  came  floating  from  the  valley,  prolonged  by  tiie  moun- 
tain echoes :  a  number  of  horsemen  were  seen  far  below,  slowiy 
advancing  along  the  ro»,d;  but  when  they  had  nearly  reached 
the  foot  of  the  mountai»i,  they  suddenly  struck  off  in  a  different 


guest 
Her  hour.  The 
v.ie  rich  forests 


direction.     The 
to  Hit  by  in  th 
to  the  view  :  ai 
then  a  peasant 
WhUe  the  ol 
plexity,  a  very 
part  of  the  O-.h 
Tho  young  C 
route  in  that  s( 
matrimony  wh( 
certainty  of  co 
him,  as  cevtaii 
had  encounter( 
with  whom  he 
Von   Starke  uf 
hearts  of  Ger 
araiy.     His   f 
fortress  of  Lai 
families  hostil 
In   the   wai 
friends  relatet 
Count  gave  t 
youii;j;  lady  wl 
'had  ieO(!ived  1 
As  tlic  rou 
a<rri'0((  to  per 
they  might  do 
an  i-arly  hour 
to  follow  and 
They  beo;r 
military  seen* 
tittle  tedious 
ai'le.  and  lli 
In  this  w 
ilenwahl,  a 
thickly  wood 
e.eraiany  ba- 
its castles  l)V 
tieularly  iiuii 
deriirg  al)on1 
therefore,  tli 
stragglers,  i 
selves  with 
Count's  retii 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM. 


121 


direction.  The  last  ray  of  sunshine  departed  —  the  bats  began 
to  Hit  by  in  the  twilight — the  road  grew  dimmer  and  dimmer 
to  the  view :  and  nothing  appeareu  stirring  in  it,  but  now  and 
tiien  a  jieasant  lagging  homeward  from  his  labor. 

While  the  old  eastle  of  Laudshort  was  in  this  state  of  per* 
ploxity,  a  very  interesting  scene  was  transacting  in  a  different 
part  of  the  Odenwald. 

The  young  Count  Von  Altenburg  was  tranquilly  pursuing  his 
route  in  that  sober  jog-trot  way  in  which  a  man  travels  toward 
;n:itrimony  when  his  friends  have  taken  all  the  trouble  and  un- 
cortainty  of  courtship  off  his  hands,  and  a  bride  is  waiting  for 
liim,  as  certainly  as  a  dii  .  ",  at  the  end  of  his  journey.  He 
jiad  encountered  at  Wurtzburg  a  youthful  companion  in  arms, 
with  whom  he  had  seen  some  service  on  the  frontiers ;  Herman 
Von  Starkeufaust,  one  of  the  stoutest  hands  and  worthiest 
iicaits  of  German  chivalry,  who  was  now  returning  from  the 
anuy.  His  father's  castle  was  not  far  distant  from  the  old 
fortress  of  Landshort,  although  an  hereditary  feud  rendered  the 
families  hostile,  and  strangers  to  each  other. 

Ill  the  warm-hearted  moment  of  recognition,  the  young 
friends  related  all  their  past  adventures  and  fortunes,  and  the 
Coiiiit  gave  the  whole  history  of  lii^  intended  nuptials  with  a 
voiiiig  lady  whom  he  had  never  seen,  but  of  whose  charms  he 
iiad  received  the  most  enrapturing  descriptions. 

As  tlie  route  of  the  friends  lay  in  tiie  same  direction,  they 
a<ircL'((  to  perform  the  rest  of  their  journey  together;  and  that 
tlu'y  might  do  it  the  more  leisurely,  set  off  from  Wuitzburg  at 
an  i-arly  hour,  tlae  Count  having  given  directions  for  his  retinui^ 
to  t()lk)vv  and  overtake  him. 

Thoy  beguiled  their  wayfaring  with  recollections  of  their 
military  scenes  and  adventures ;  but  the  Count  was  apt  to  be  a 
littie  ti'dions,  now  and  then,  about  tlie  reputed  charms  of  hij 
iilc.  and  th(,'  filicity  tliat  awaited  him. 

Ill  tills  way  tiiey  had  entered  among  the  mountains  of  the 
/k'liwald,  and  were  traversing  one  of  its  most  .onely  and 
thickly  wooded  jmsses.  It  is  well  known  tiiat  tlie  forests  of 
(jt'iiiiany  have  always  been  M  rnudi  infested  by  robbers  as 
its  castles  by  spectrcH  ;  and.  at  this  time,  the  former  were  par- 
ticularly idiinorous,  fioni  tin  liordes  of  disbanded  soldiers  wan- 
dering about  tlu!  country,  it  will  nut  appear  extraordinary, 
therefore,  that  the  cavaliers  were  attacked  l)y  a  gang  of  these 
stragglers,  in  the  midst  of  the  fore>«t.  They  defended  them- 
selves with  bravcuy,  but  were  ne:irly  overpowered  when  tlie 
touut's  retinue  arrived  to  their  ;w«»»i!ita»jce.     At  sight  of  them 


\  \ 


•  fl 


JHl 


122 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


[f  ■■. 


;jv  t 


III 


\  If 


iti' 


the  robbers  fled,  but  not  unt"  the  Count  had  received  a  mortal 
wound.  He  was  slowly  and  c.  efully  conveyed  back  to  the  city 
of  Wurtzburg,  and  a  friar  summoned  from  a  neighboring  con- 
vent, who  was  famous  for  his  skill  in  administering  to  both  soul 
and  body.  But  half  of  his  skill  was  superfluous  ;  the  moments 
of  the  unfortunate  Count  were  numbered. 

With  his  dying  breath  he  entreated  his  friend  to  repair  in^ 
stantly  to  the  castle  of  Landshort,  and  explain  the  fatal  cause 
of  his  not  keeping  his  appointment  with  his  bride.  Though  not 
the  most  ardent  of  lovers,  he  was  one  of  the  most  punctilious 
of  men,  and  4  ^  eared  earnestly  solicitous  that  his  mission 
should  be  speedily  and  courteously  executed.  "  Unless  this  is 
done,"  said  he,  "  I  sliall  not  sleep  quietly  in  my  grave  !  "  lie 
repeated  these  last  words  with  peculiar  solemnity.  A  request, 
at  a  moment  so  impressive,  admitted  no  hesitation.  Starkeu- 
faust  endeavored  to  sooth  him  to  calmness;  promised  faith- 
fully to  execute  his  wish,  and  gave  him  his  hand  in  solemn 
pledge.  The  dying  man  pressed  it  'v\  acknowledgment,  but 
soon  lapsed  into  delirium — raved  about  'is  bride  —  his  engage- 
ments—  his  plighted  word;  ordered  his  horse,  that  he  might 
ride  to  the  castle  of  L;indshort,  and  expired  in  the  fancied  act 
of  vaulting  into  the  saddle. 

Starkenfaust  bestowed  a  sigh,  and  a  soldier'^  tear  on  the  un- 
timely fate  of  bis  comrade;  and  then  pondered  on  the  awkward 
mission  he  had  undertaken.  His  heart  was-  heavy,  and  his  head 
perplexed  ;  for  he  was  to  present  himself  an  unbidden  guest 
among  hostile  people,  and  to  dump  their  festivity  with  tidings 
fatal  to  their  hopes.  Still  there  were  certain  whisperiugs  of 
curiosity  in  his  bosom  to  see  this  far-famed  beauty  of  Katzen- 
ellenbogen,  so  cautiously  shut  up  from  the  world  ;  for  he  was  a 
passionate  admirer  of  the  sex,  and  there  was  a  dash  of  eccen- 
tricity and  enterprise  in  his  character,  that  made  him  fond  of  nil 
singular  adventure. 

Previous  to  his  departure,  he  made  all  due  arrangements  willi 
the  holy  fraternity  of  the  convent  for  the  funeral  solemnities  of 
his  friend,  wlio  was  to  lie  buried  in  the  cathedral  of  Wurtzburg, 
near  some  of  his  illustrious  relatives ;  and  the  mourning  retinue 
of  the  Count  took  charge  of  his  remains. 

It  is  now  high  time  that  we  should  return  to  the  ancient  fam- 
ily of  Katzcnellenbogen,  who  were  impatient  for  their  guest, 
and  still  more  for  their  dinner  ;  and  to  the  worthy  little  Baron, 
whom  we  left  airing  himst^lf  on  the  watch-tower. 

Night  closed  in,  but  still  no  guest  arrived.  The  Baron  de- 
scended  from  the  tower  in  despair.     The  banquet,  which  had 


;  i 


i! 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM. 


rid 


been  delayed  from  hour  to  hour,  could  no  longer  be  postponed. 
The  meats  were  alretuly  overdone  ;  the  cook  in  an  agony  ;  and 
the  whole  hous(!hold  had  tlie  look  of  a  garrison  that  had  been 
reduced  by  famine.  The  Baron  was  ol)liged  reluctantly  to  give 
orders  for  the  feast  without  the  i)resence  of  the  guest.  All 
wore  seated  at  table,  and  just  on  the  point  of  commencing^ 
wheu  tlie  sound  of  a  horn  from  without  the  gate  gave  notice 
of  file  approach  of  a  strniiger.  Another  long  blast  filled  the 
old  coiuts  of  the  castle  with  it:3  echoes,  and  was  answered  by 
the  warder  from  the  walls.  The  Baron  hastened  to  receive  his 
future  son-in-hiw. 

The  drawbridge  had  been  let  down,  and  the  stranger  ^ras 
before  the  gate.  He  was  a  tall,  gallant  cavalier,  mounted  on  a 
black  steed.  His  countenance  was  |)ale,but  he  had  a  beaming, 
romantic  eye,  and  an  air  of  stately  melancholy.  The  Baron 
was  u  little  moitified  tliat  he  should  have  come  in  this  simple, 
solitary  style.  His  dignity  for  a  moment  was  ruffled,  and  he 
felt  disposed  to  consider  it  a  want  of  proper  respect  for  the  im- 
portant occasion,  and  the  important  family  with  which  he  waa 
to  be  connected.  He  pacilieil  himself,  however,  with  the  con- 
clusion that  it  must  have  been  youthful  impatience  which  had 
IikIucihI  him  thus  to  spur  on  sooner  than  his  attendants. 

''  I  am  sorry,"  said  the  stranger,  ''  to  break  iu  upon  you  thus 
iiiiseiisonably  —  " 

Here  the  Baron  interrupted  him  with  a  world  of  compliments 
and  greetings ;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  prided  himself  upon  his 
courtesy  and  eK^cjuence.  Tiie  stranger  attempted,  once  or 
twice,  to  stem  the  torrent  of  nords,  ])ut  in  vain  ;  so  he  bowed 
his  iiead  and  suffered  it  to  flow  on.  By  the  time  the  Baron  had 
come  to  a  pause,  tiiey  had  reached  tlu;  inner  court  of  the  castle  ; 
aud  the  stranger  was  again  al)out  to  speak,  when  he  was  once 
more  interrui)ted  liy  the  a[>pearance  of  the  female  part  of  the 
family,  leading  forth  the  shrinking  and  blushing  bride.  He 
(jazed  on  her  for  a  moment  as  one  entranced ;  it  seemed  as  if 
his  whole  soul  beamed  forth  in  the  gaze,  and  rested  upon  that 
lovely  form.  One  of  the  maiden  aunts  whispered  something  in 
her  ear ;  she  made  an  etTort  to  si)eak  ;  her  moist  blue  eye  was 
timidly  raised,  gave  a  shy  glance  of  inquiry  on  the  stranger^ 
aud  was  cast  again  to  the  ground.  The  words  died  away  ;  bui 
there  was  a  sweet  smile  playing  about  her  lips,  and  a  soft  dim 
pliug  of  the  cheek,  tln'^  showed  her  glance  had  not  been  un- 
satisfactory. It  was  impo'sihle  for  a  girl  of  the  fond  age  of 
eighteo:),  highly  predispose-i  for  love  aud  matrimony,  not  to  bo 
pleased  with  so  gallant  a  cavalier. 


I: 


i',r 


■  ( 


;■ 


i,    ' 


/  :.i^' 


n 


i:lir 


124 


TBE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


The  late  hour  at  which  the  guest  had  arrived,  left  no  time 
for  parley.  The  Baron  was  peremptory,  and  deferred  all  par- 
ticular  conversation  until  the  morning,  and  led  the  way  to  the 
untasted  banquet. 

It  was  served  up  in  the  great  hall  of  the  castle.  Around  the 
walls  hung  the  hard-favored  portraits  of  the  heroes  of  the  house 
of  Katzeuellenbogen,  and  the  trophies  which  they  had  gaiued 
in  the  field  and  in  the  chase.  Hacked  corselets,  splintered 
jousting  spears,  and  tattered  banners,  were  mingled  with  the 
spoils  of  sylvan  warfare :  the  jaws  of  the  wolf,  and  the  tusks 
of  the  boar,  grinned  horribly  among  cross-bows  and  battle- 
axes,  and  a  liuge  pair  of  antlers  branched  immediately  over  the 
head  of  the  youthful  bridegroom. 

The  cavalier  took  but  little  notice  of  the  company  or  the 
entertainment.  He  scarcely  tasted  the  banquet,  but  Heeiiied 
absorbed  in  admiration  of  his  bride.  He  conversed  in  a  low 
tone,  that  could  not  be  overheard  —  for  the  language  of  love  is 
never  loud ;  but  where  is  the  female  ear  so  dull  that  it  cannot 
catch  the  softest  whisper  of  the  lover?  There  was  a  mingled 
tenderness  and  gravity  in  his  manner,  that  appeared  to  have  a 
powerful  effect  upon  the  young  lady.  Her  color  came  and 
went,  as  she  listened  with  deep  attention.  Now  and  then  she 
made  some  blushing  reply,  and  when  his  eye  was  turned  away, 
she  would  steal  a  sidelong  glance  at  his  romantic  counteuauce, 
and  heave  a  gentle  sigh  of  tender  happiness.  It  was  evideut 
that  the  young  couple  were  completely  enamoured.  The  aunts, 
who  were  deeply  versed  in  the  mysteries  of  the  heart,  de- 
clared that  they  had  fallen  in  love  with  each  other  at  first 
sight. 

The  feast  went  on  merrily,  or  at  least  noisily,  for  the  guests 
were  all  blessed  with  tliose  keen  appetites  that  attend  upon 
light  pui-ses  and  mountain  air.  The  Baron  told  his  best  and 
longest  stories,  and  never  had  he  told  them  so  well,  or  with 
such  great  effect.  If  there  was  any  thing  marvellous,  bis 
auditors  were  lost  in  astonisiuneut ;  and  if  any  thing  facetious, 
they  were  sure  to  laugli  exactly  in  the  right  place.  The  Baron, 
it  is  true,  like  most  great  meu,  was  too  dignified  to  utter  any 
joke,  but  a  dull  one ;  it  was  always  enforced,  however,  by  a 
bumper  of  excellent  Hockheimer;  and  even  a  dull  joke,  at 
one's  own  table,  served  up  with  jolly  old  wine,  is  iiresistible. 
Many  good  things  were  said  by  poorer  and  keener  wits,  that 
would  not  bear  repeatin<>;,  except  on  similar  occasions ;  many 
sly  speedies  wliispered  in  ladies'  ears,  that  almost  convulsed 
them  with  suppressed  laughter ;  and  a  aoug  or  two  roared  out 


TBB  SPBCTRX  BRIDKOROOM. 


125 


I 


by  a  pool',  but  raerry  and  broad-fiiced  cousin  of  the  Baron,  that 
absolutely  made  the  maiden  aunts  hold  up  their  fans. 

Amidst  all  this  revelry,  the  strtiiiger  guest  maintained  a  most 
singular  and  unseasonable  gravity.  His  countenance  assumed 
a  deeper  cast  of  dejection  as  the  evening  advanced,  and, 
strange  as  it  may  appear,  even  the  Baron's  jokes  seemed  only 
to  render  him  the  more  melancholy.  At  timea  he  was  lost  in 
thought,  and  at  times  there  was  a  perturbed  and  restless  wan- 
dering of  the  eye  that  bespoke  a  mind  but  ill  at  ease.  His 
conversations  with  the  bride  became  more  and  more  earnest 
and  mysterious.  Ix)wering  clouds  began  to  steal  over  the  fair 
serenity  of  her  brow,  and  tremors  to  run  through  her  tender 
frame. 

All  this  could  not  escape  the  notice  of  the  company.  Their 
gayety  was  chilled  by  the  unaccountable  gloom  of  the  bride- 
groom ;  their  sjjirits  were  infected  ;  whispers  and  glances  were 
interchanged,  accompanied  by  shrugs  antl  dubious  shakes  of  the 
head.  The  song  and  the  laugh  grew  less  and  less  frecpient ; 
there  were  dreary  pauses  in  the  conversation,  which  were  at 
length  succeeded  by  wild  tales,  and  supernatural  legends 
One  dismal  story  produced  another  still  more  dismal,  and  the 
Baron  nearly  frightened  some  of  the  ladies  into  hysterics 
with  the  history  of  the  goblin  horseman  that  carried  away 
the  fair  Leonora  —  a  dreadful  story,  which  has  since  been 
put  into  excellent  verse,  and  is  read  and  believed  by  all  the 
world. 

The  bridegroom  listened  to  this  tale  with  profound  attention. 
He  kept  his  eyes  steadily  fixed  on  the  Baron,  and  as  the  story 
drew  to  a  close,  began  gradually  to  rise  from  his  scat,  growing 
taller  and  taller,  until,  in  the  Baron's  entranced  eye,  he  seemed 
almosst  to  tower  into  a  giant.  The  moment  the  tale  was  fin- 
ished, he  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  took  a  solemn  farewell  of  the 
company.  They  were  all  amazement.  The  Baron  was  per- 
fectly thunderstruck. 

"What!  going  to  leave  the  castle  at  midnight?  why,  every 
thing  was  prepared  for  his  reception  ;  a  chamber  was  ready  for 
him  if  he  wished  to  retire." 

The  stranger  shook  his  head  mournfully,  and  mysteriously; 
"  I  must  lay  my  head  in  a  different  chamber  to-night !  " 

There  was  something  in  this  reply,  and  the  tone  in  which  it 
was  uttered,  that  made  the  Baron's  heart  misgive  him  ;  but  he 
rallied  his  forces,  and  repeated  his  hospitable  entreaties.  The 
stranger  shook  his  head  silently,  but  positively,  at  every  offer ; 
and,  waving  his  farewell  to  the  comi)auy,  stalked  slowly  out  of 


'm     a  . 


} ). 


'i^' 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


/v 


€^^% 


yj 


1.0 


I.I 


£  m 

£    l£    1110 


>-  .. 


1.8 


11-25  ■  1.4    mil  1.6 


V 


M 


Photographic 

Sdences 

Corporation 


23  WSST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MS80 

(716)  872-4503 


Vj 


126 


THE  EK.ETCH-BOOK. 


m 


the  hall.  The  maiden  aunts  were  absolutely  petrified— thb 
oride  hung  her  head,  and  a  tear  stole  to  her  eye. 

The  Baron  followed  the  stranger  to  the  great  court  of  the 
castle,  where  the  black  charger  stood  pawing  the  earth,  and 
snorting  with  impatience.  When  they  had  reached  tho  portal, 
whose  deep  archway  was  dimly  lighted  by  a  cresset,  the  stran- 
ger paused,  and  addressed  the  Baron  in  a  hollow  tone  of  voice, 
which  t  ie  vaulted  roof  rendered  still  more  sepulchral.  '^  Now 
that  we  are  alone,"  said  he,  "I  will  impart  to  you  the  reason  of 
iny  going.     I  have  a  solemn,  an  indispensable  engagement  —  " 

"''why,"  said  the  Baron,  "  cannot  you  send  some  one  in  your 

place?" 

"  It  admits  of  no  substitute  —  I  must  attend  it  in  person  — I 
must  away  to  Wurtzburg  cathedral  —  " 

"Ay,"  said  the  B-uon,  plucking  up  spirit,  "but  not  until 
to-morrow  —  to-morrow  you  sliall  take  your  bride  there." 

"No!  no!"  replied  the  stranger,  with  ten-fold  solemnity, 
^'' my  engagement  is  with  no  bride  —  the  worms!  the  worms 
expect  me !  I  am  a  dead  man  —  I  have  been  slain  by  robbers  — 
my  body  lies  at  Wurtzburg  —  at  midnight  I  am  to  be  buried  — 
the  grave  is  waiting  for  me  —  I  must  keep  my  appointment !  " 

He  sprang  on  liis  black  charger,  daslied  over  the  drawbridge, 
and  the  clattering  of  his  horse's  hoofs  was  lost  in  the  whistling 
of  the  night-l>last. 

The  Baron  returned  to  the  hall  in  the  utmost  consternation, 
and  related  what  hud  passed.  Two  ladies  fainted  outright; 
otiit.:;:  sickened  at  tlie  idea  of  having  banqueted  with  a  spectre. 
It  was  the  opinion  of  some,  tliat  this  might  be  the  wild  hunts- 
man famous  in  Germin  legend.  Some  talked  of  mountain 
sprites,  of  wood-demons,  and  of  other  supernatural  beings, 
with  which  the  good  people  of  (lermau}'  have  been  so  griev- 
ously harassed  since  time  immemorial.  One  of  the  poor  rela- 
tions ventured  to  suggest  that  it  might  be  some  sportive  evasion 
of  the  young  cavalier,  and  that  the  very  gloominess  of  the  ca- 
price seemed  to  accord  with  so  melancholy  a  personage.  This, 
however,  drew  on  him  the  indignation  of  the  whole  company,  and 
especially  of  the  Baron,  who  looked  upon  him  as  little  better  than 
an  infidel ;  so  that  lie  was  fain  to  abjure  his  heresy  as  speedily 
as  possible,  and  come  into  the  faitli  of  the  true  believers. 

But.  whatever  may  have  been  the  doubts  entertained,  they 
were  completely  put  to  an  end  by  ti»o  arrival,  next  day,  of  reg- 
ular missives,  confirming  the  intelligence  of  the  youug  Count's 
purder,  and  his  interment  in  Wurtzburg  cathedral. 

The  dismay  at  the  castle  mav  well  be  imagined.     The  Barou 


ghut  himself  ui 
rejoice  with  bin 
tress.    Theyw 
iu  the  liall,  sha 
at  tlic  troubles 
table,  and  ate 
keeping  up  the 
bride  was  the 
she  had  even  e 
spectre  could  ' 
living  man  ?     ^• 
Oil  the  night 
retired  to  her  c 
insisted  on  sle 
best  tellers  of 
counting  one  o 
midst  of  it. 
garden.     The 
rising  moon,  a 
before  Hie  lat 
when  a  soft  s 
rose  hastily  fi 
A  tall  ligurc  i 
raised  its  head 
Heaven  and  d 
loud  shriek  at 
wIk)  had  been 
silently  to  the 
again,  the  spc 
Of  the  two 
for  she  was  i 
young  lady,  t 
lover,  that  se^ 
of  manly  bcai 
calenlated  to  i 
the  substance 
aunt  declared 
niece,  for  on* 
she  woukl  sle 
that  she  had 
her  aunt  not 
be  denied  tht 
of  inhabiting 
lover  kept  iit 


THE  SPECTRE  liRIDEGBOOM. 


V21 


shut  himself  up  in  his  chamber.  The  guests  who  had  oome  to 
rejoice  witii  him  could  not  think  of  abandoning  him  in  his  dis- 
tress. They  wandered  about  the  courts,  or  collected  in  groups 
ii)  tlic  hall,  shaiving  tlioir  lieads  and  shrugging  their  shoulders, 
at  tlie  troubles  of  so  good  a  man  ;  and  sat  longer  than  ever  at 
table,  and  ate  and  drank  more  stoutly  than  ever,  by  way  of 
keeping  up  their  spirits.  But  the  situation  of  the  widowed 
briclc  was  the  most  pitiable.  To  have  lost  a  husband  before 
she  had  even  embraced  him  —  and  such  a  husband  !  if  the  very 
spectre  could  be  so  gracious  and  noble  what  must  have  been  the 
living  man  ?     She  filled  the  house  with  lamentations. 

On  tiie  night  of  the  second  day  of  her  widowhood,  slie  had 
retired  to  her  chamber,  accompanied  by  one  of  her  aunts,  who 
insisted  on  sleeping  witli  her.  The  aunt,  who  was  one  of  the 
best  tellers  of  ghost  stories  in  all  Germany,  had  just  been  re- 
counting one  of  her  longest,  and  had  fallen  asleep  in  the  very 
midst  of  it.  The  chamijcr  was  remote,  and  overlooked  a  small 
garden.  The  niece  lay  pensively  gazing  at  the  beams  of  the 
rising  moon,  as  they  trembled  on  the  leaves  of  an  aspen  tree 
before  tlie  lattice.  The  castle  clock  iiad  just  told  midnight, 
when  a  soft  strain  of  music  stole  up  from  the  garden.  She 
rose  hastily  from  her  bed,  and  stepped  lightly  to  the  window. 
A  tall  figure  stood  among  the  shadows  of  the  trees.  As  it 
raised  its  head,  a  beam  of  moonlight  fell  upon  the  countenance. 
Heaven  and  earth !  she  belield  the  Spectre  Bridegroom  !  A 
loud  sinlek  at  that  moment  burst  upon  her  ear,  and  her  aunt, 
will)  had  been  awakened  by  the  nuisic,  and  had  followed  her 
silently  to  the  window,  fell  into  her  arms.  When  she  looked 
again,  the  spectre  had  disappeared. 

Of  the  two  lemak's,  tlie  aunt  now  required  the  most  soothing, 
for  she  was  perfectly  beside  lierself  with  terror.  As  to  the 
young  lady,  there  was  some  thing,  even  in  the  spectre  of  her 
lover,  that  seemed  endearing.  There  was  still  the  semblance 
of  manly  beauty  ;  and  though  the  shadow  of  a  man  is  but  little 
calculated  to  satisfy  the  affections  of  a  love-sick  girl,  yet,  where 
the  substance  is  not  to  be  had,  even  that  is  cousoling.  The 
aunt  declared  she  would  never  sleep  in  that  chamber  again  ;  the 
niece,  for  once,  was  refractory,  and  declared  as  strongly  that 
she  woukl  sleep  in  no  other  in  the  castle  :  the  consequence  was, 
that  she  had  to  sleep  in  it  alone  ;  but  she  drew  a  promise  from 
her  aunt  not  to  relate  the  story  of  the  spectre,  lest  she  should 
be  denied  the  only  melancholy  pleasmv  left  her  on  earth  —  that 
of  inhabiting  the  chainlier  over  which  the  guardian  shade  of  her 
lover  kept  its  nightly  vigils. 


I  i 


id 


^;  ■  ^ 


i: 


128 


THE  SKETCB-BOOK. 


i    ■: 


!:1 


How  long  the  good  old  lady  would  have  observed  tliis  prcm- 
ise  is  uncertain,  for  she  dearly  loved  to  talk  of  the  m:ir villous, 
and  there  is  a  triumph  in  being  the  first  to  tell  a  frightful  story j 
it  is,  however,  still  quoted  in  the  neighborhood,  as  a  niemora- 
ble  instance  of  female  secrecy,  that  she  kept  it  to  herself  for  a 
whole  week ;  when  she  was  suddenly  absolved  from  all  further 
restraint,  by  intelligence  brought  to  the  breakfast-table  one 
morning  that  the  young  lady  was  not  to  be  found.  Her  room 
was  empty  —  the  bed  had  not  been  slept  in  —  the  window  was 
open  —  and  the  bird  had  flown  ! 

The  astonishment  and  concern  with  which  the  intelligence 
was  received,  can  only  be  imagined  by  those  who  have  wit- 
nessed the  agitation  which  the  mishaps  of  a  great  man  cause 
among  his  friends.  Even  the  poor  relations  paused  for  a 
moment  from  the  indefatigable  lalwrs  of  the  trencher;  when 
the  aunt,  who  had  at  first  been  struck  speecliless,  wrung  her 
hands  and  shrieked  out,  "  The  goblin!  the  goblin!  she's  car- 
ried away  by  the  goblin  !  " 

In  a  few  words  she  related  the  fearful  scene  of  the  garden, 
and  concluded  that  the  spectre  must  have  carried  off  his  bride. 
Two  of  the  domestics  corroborated  the  opinion,  for  they  luul 
heard  the  clattering  of  a  horse's  hoofs  down  the  mountain  about 
midnight,  and  had  no  doubt  that  it  was  the  spectre  on  his  black- 
charger,  bearing  her  away  to  the  tomb.  All  present  were 
struck  with  the  direful  probability  ;  for  events  of  the  kind  are 
extremely  common  in  Germany,  as  many  well-authenticated  his- 
tories bear  witness. 

What  a  lamentable  situation  was  that  of  the  poor  Baron! 
"What  a  heart-rending  dilemma  for  a  fond  father,  and  a  mem- 
ber of  the  great  family  of  Katzenellenbogen  !  Ilis  only  daugli- 
ter  had  either  been  rapt  away  to  the  grave,  or  he  was  to  huve 
some  wood-demon  for  a  son-in-law,  and,  perchance,  a  troop  of 
goblin  grand-children.  As  usual,  he  was  completely  bewil- 
dered, and  all  the  castle  in  an  uproar.  The  men  were  ordered 
to  take  horse,  and  scour  every  road  and  path  and  glen  of  the 
Odenwald.  The  Baron  himself  had  just  drawn  on  his  jack- 
boots, girded  on  his  sword,  and  was  about  to  mount  his  steed 
to  sally  forth  on  the  doubtful  quest,  when  he  was  brouglit  to  a 
pause  by  a  new  apparition.  A  lady  was  seen  approaching  the 
castle,  mounted  on  a  palfrey  attended  by  a  cavalier  on  horse- 
back. She  galloped  up  to  the  gate,  sprang  from  her  horse,  and 
falling  at  the  Baron's  feet  embraced  his  knees.  It  was  his  lost 
daughter,  and  her  companion  —  the  Spectre  Bridegroom  !  Tlie 
Baron  was  astounded.     lie  looked  at  his  daughter,  then  at  tU 


Spectre,  and 
latter,  too,  wa 
liis  visit  to  th 
set  off  a  nob 
pale  and  mel 
the  glow  of  yt 
The  myste 
truth,  as  you 
announced  hi 
latcd  liis  a(lv 
had  hastened 
that  the  eloq 
attempt  to  te 
pletely  captiv 
he  ha('  tacitl: 
been  sorely  i 
until  the  Ba 
exit.    How, 
repeated  his 
neath  the  yc 
had  borne  a^ 

fair. 

Under  any 

inflexible,  fo 

voutly  ol)stiu 

he  luul  hunei 

and,  though 

Heaven,  he 

he  acknowlc 

of  strict  ver 

of  his  being 

had  served 

?xo\isai)le  ii 

privilege,  hi 

Matters, 

donod  the  y 

were  lesunK 

her  of  the 

generous  — 

scandalized 

obedience  i 

to  their  ne^ 

them  was  ] 

marred,  an 


i  .1 


THE  SPECTRE  BRIDEGROOM. 


129 


Spectre,  and  almost  donbted  the  evidence  of  his  senses.  The 
latter,  too,  was  wonderfully  improved  in  his  appearance,  since 
his  visit  to  the  world  of  spirits.  His  dress  was  splendid,  and 
set  off  a  noble  figure  of  manly  symmetry.  He  was  no  longer 
pale  and  melancholy.  His  fine  countenance  was  flushed  with 
the  glow  of  youth,  and  joy  rioted  in  his  large  dark  eye. 

The  mystery  was  soon  cleared  up.  The  cavalier  (for  in 
truth,  as  you  must  have  known  all  the  while,  he  was  no  goblin) 
announced  himself  as  Sir  Herman  Von  Starkenfaust.  He  re- 
lated his  adventure  with  the  young  Count.  He  told  how  he 
had  hastened  to  the  castle  to  deliver  the  unwelcome  tidings,  but 
that  the  eloquence  of  the  Baron  had  interrupted  him  in  every 
attempt  to  tell  his  tale.  How  the  sight  of  the  bride  had  com- 
pletely captivated  him,  and  that  to  pass  a  few  hours  near  her, 
ho  ha(i  tacitly  suffered  the  mistake  to  continue.  How  he  had 
been  sorely  perplexed  in  what  way  to  make  a  decent  retreat, 
until  the  liaron's  goblin  stories  had  suggested  his  eccentric 
exit.  How,  fearing  the  feudal  hostility  of  the  family,  he  had 
repeated  his  visits  by  stealth  —  had  haunted  the  garden  be- 
ncatii  the  young  lady's  window  —  had  wooed  —  had  won  — 
had  borne  away  in  triumph  —  and,  in  a  word,  had  wedded  the 
fair. 

Under  an}'  other  circumstances,  the  Baron  would  have  been 
inflexible,  for  he  was  tenacious  of  i)aternal  authority,  and  de- 
voutly ol)stinato  in  all  family  feuds  ;  but  he  loved  his  daughter; 
he  iiad  lamented  her  as  lost ;  he  rejoiced  to  find  her  still  alive  ; 
anil,  though  her  husband  was  of  a  hostile  house,  j'et,  thank 
Heaven,  he  was  not  a  goblin.  There  was  something,  it  must 
be  acknowledged,  that  did  not  exactly  accord  with  his  notions 
of  strict  veracity,  in  the  joke  the  knight  had  passed  upon  him 
of  his  being  a  dead  man  ;  but  several  old  friends  present,  who 
had  served  in  the  wars,  assured  him  that  every  stratagem  was 
?xousal)le  in  love,  and  that  the  cavalier  was  entitled  to  especia? 
privilege,  having  lately  served  as  a  trooper. 

Matters,  therefore,  were  happily  arranged.  The  Baron  par- 
doned the  young  couple  on  the  spot.  The  revels  at  the  castle 
were  resumed.  The  poor  relations  overwhelmed  tliis  new  mem- 
ber of  the  famil}'  with  loving  kindness  ;  he  was  so  gallant,  so 
generous  —  and  so  rich.  Tiie  aunts,  it  is  true,  were  somewhat 
scandalized  that  their  system  of  strict  seclusion  and  passive 
obediinice  should  be  so  badly  exemplified,  but  attributed  it  all 
to  their  negligence  in  not  having  the  windows  grated.  One  of 
tlieni  was  particularly  mortified  at  having  her  marvellous  story 
marred,  and  that  tiie  only  spectre  she  had  ever  seen  should  turu 


I  h 

\        1     '    I 

I   :  '   :  I 


%■'.. 


H,        1" 


I   :i 


I  an.  I 


1  \ 


hir 


'i 


I  |i 


:.i 


130 


THE    SKETCH-BOOK. 


out  a  oonnterfcit ;  but  tho  niece  seemerl  perfectly  liajipy  at  Imv. 
ing  found  him  substantial  Hesli  and  blood  —  and  fo  t'le  storj 
ends. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

When  I  bohold,  willi  depp  astoniBhment, 
To  fiirnoim  WoKtmineli'i-  how  Ihert'  ri'sorte, 
Living  in  tirnsHO  or  stony  monuincnt, 
Tho  piinci'n  .111(1  the  worthie«  of  ill!  sorto; 
Doe  not  I  see  reforindo  nobilitio, 
Without  contempt,  or  pride,  or  onlentntion, 
And  ioolje  iii)on  offonHi'lefse  luajoHty, 
Naliod  of  pomp  or  eurllily  doniinalion? 
And  how  a  play-iifarne  of  ii  piuntcii  ntono 
Contents  the  quiet  now  and  hileiit  sprites, 
Whome  all  the  world  which  late  they  stood  upon, 
Could  not  content  or  quench  taoir  appetites. 

Life  is  a  frost  of  cold  felicitic, 

And  death  the  thaw  of  all  our  vanitio. 

C/irUlulero's  Epigrams,  by  T.  B.,  1508, 

On  one  of  those  sober  and  I'ather  melancholy  days,  in  the 
latter  part  of  autumn,  when  tlie  sliadows  of  moniiii;:;  and  ovtMi- 
ing  almost  mingle  together,  and  throw  a  gloom  over  the  decline 
of  the  year,  I  passed  several  hours  in  raml)ling  about  Westmin- 
ster Abbey.  There  was  something  congenitil  to  tlie  season  in 
the  mournful  magnificence  of  the  old  pile  ;  and  as  I  passed  its 
threshold,  it  seemed  like  stepping  back  into  the  regions  of  antiq- 
uity, and  losing  myself  among  the  sliades  of  former  ages. 

I  entered  from  the  inner  court  of  Westminster  school,  through 
a  long,  low,  vaulted  passage,  that  had  an  almost  subterranean 
look,  being  dimly  lighted  in  one  part  l)y  circular  perfoiations  in 
the  massive  walls.  Through  this  dark  avenue  I  had  a  distant 
view  of  the  cloisters,  with  the  figure  of  an  old  verger,  in  his 
black  gown,  moving  along  their  sliadowy  vaults,  and  seemiug 
like  a  spectre  from  one  of  the  neigiil)oring  tombs. 

The  approach  to  the  abbe}'  through  these  gloomy  monastic 
remains,  prepares  the  mind  for  its  solemn  contemplation.  The 
cloister  still  retains  something  of  the  quiet  and  seclusion  of 
former  da3's.  The  gray  walls  are  discolored  by  damps,  and 
crumbling  with  age ;  a  coat  of  hoary  moss  has  gathered  over 
the  inscriptions  of  the  nmral  monuments,  and  obscm-ed  the 
death's  heads,  and  other  funeral  emblems.  The  sharp  (ouches 
of  the  chisel  are  gone  from  the  rich  tracery  of  the  arches ;  tho 


roses  which 
every  thing 
which  yet  h 
decay. 

The  sun 
square  of  th* 
the  centre, 
with  a  kind 
the  eye  glan< 
beheld  the  £ 
azure  heavei 
As  1  pace 
gled  picture 
decipher  the 
pavement  b( 
figures,  rude 
footsteps  of 
of  the  early 
names  alont 
times;  (Vit 
has.  IIU, 
little  while, 
left  like  wre 
but  that  sue 
moral  but  t 
homage  in 
longer,  and 
monument  y 
iio  ,.o\\n  n[ 
Ihe  :'ltbeY  ( 
4'1'hoiiig  aiiK 
wall' ing  of 
uvj:  the  lap 
CMiward  tow 
I  pursuec 
of  the  abVie; 
breaks  fulh 
cloisters, 
gigantic  di' 
an    amazin 
shrunk  int< 
work.     Thi 
a  profound 
about,  as  i 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 


131 


roses  which  adorned  the  key-stones  have  lost  their  leafy  beauty ; 
every  thing  bears  marks  of  the  gradual  dilapidations  of  time, 
which  yet  has  something  touching  and  i)lea8ing  in  its  very 
decay. 

The  sun  was  pouring  down  a  yellow  autumnal  ray  into  the 
square  of  the  cloisters  ;  beaming  upon  a  scanty  plot  of  grass  in 
the  centre,  and  lighting  up  an  angle  of  the  vaulted  passage 
with  a  kind  of  dusky  splendor.  From  between  the  arcades, 
the  eye  glanced  up  to  a  bit  of  blue  sky,  or  a  passhig  cloud ;  and 
beheld  the  sun-gilt  pinnacles  of  the  abbey  towering  into  the 
azure  heaven. 

As  1  paced  the  cloisters,  sometimes  contemplating  this  min- 
gled picture  of  glory  and  decay,  and  sometimes  endeavoring  to 
decipher  the  inscriptions  on  the  tombstones,  which  formed  the 
pavement  beneath  my  feet,  my  eye  was  attracted  to  three 
figures,  rudely  cai*ved  in  relief,  but  nearly  worn  away  by  the 
footsteps  of  many  generations.  They  were  the  effigies  of  three 
of  the  early  abbots  ;  the  epitaphs  were  entirely  effaced  ;  the 
names  alone  remained,  having  no  doubt  been  renewed  in  later 
times;  (Vitalis  Abbas.  1082,  and  Gislebertus  Crispinus.  Ab- 
l)as.  1114,  and  Laurentius,  Abbas.  11 70.)  I  remained  some 
little  while,  musing  over  these  casual  relics  of  antiquity,  thus 
left  like  wrecks  upon  this  di  itant  shore  of  time,  telling  no  tale 
but  that  such  beings  had  been  and  had  perished  ;  teaching  no 
moral  but  the  futility  of  that  pride  which  hoi)es  still  to  exact 
liouiage  in  its  ashes,  and  to  live  in  an  inscrii)ti«)n.  A  little 
loii«;vr,  and  even  these  faint  records  will  be  obliterated,  and  the 
monument  will  cease  to  be  a  memorial.  Whilst  I  was  yet  look- 
iig  I  own  upon  these  gravestones,  1  was  roused  by  the  sound  of 
Uu'  :ili!)ey  clock,  reverberating  from  buttress  to  buttress,  and 
I'clioiiiu;  aiiion;^-  the  doi.sters.  It  is  almost  startling  to  hear  this 
waipiiig  of  dei)aited  time  sounding  among  the  tombs,  and  tell- 
ing the  lapse  of  the  hour,  which,  like  a  l)illow,  has  rolled  us 
iwiward  towards  the  grave. 

I  pursued  my  walk  to  an  arched  door  opening  to  the  interior 
of  the  abbey.  On  entering  here,  tiie  magnitude  of  the  building 
breaks  fully  upon  the  mind,  contrasted  with  the  vaults  of  vhe 
cloisters.  The  eyes  gaze  with  wonder  at  clustered  columns  of 
gigantic  dimensions,  with  arches  springing  from  them  to  such 
au  amazing  height ;  and  man  wandering  about  their  bases, 
shruidv  into  insignilicance  in  comparison  with  his  own  handi- 
work. The  spaciousness  and  gloom  of  this  vast  edifice  produce 
a  profound  and  mysterious  awe.  We  step  cautiously  and  softly 
about,  as  if  fearful  of  disturbing  the  hallowed  silence  of   the 


t    !     t 


I     ■     I   ! 


M 


4 


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^1  .:. 


'<v: 


>,  ' 


1 4 

s.    i  ; 

it 

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■    '     ' 

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t 

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WM 

I     ^y 

132 


THE  .^KETCn-BOOlC. 


tomb ;  while  every  footfall  whispers  along  the  walls,  and   'hat 


ters  among  the  sepiil 


more  sensible  of  the 


euros,  maiving  us  more  sfiisiuiu  oi  uie  qmei 
we  have  interrupted. 

It  seems  as  if  tlie  nwfiil  tintiire  of  the  place  presses  down 
upon  the  soul,  and  luishes  the  beholder  into  noiseless  roveroncp. 
We  feel  that  we  are  surrounded  by  the  congregated  bones  of 
the  great  men  of  past  times,  who  have  filled  history  with  their 
deeds,  and  the  earth  with  their  renown.  And  yet  it  almost  pro- 
vokes a  smile  at  the  vanity  of  human  ambition,  to  see  iiow  thoy 
are  crowded  togetiier,  and  jostled  in  the  dust;  Avhat  parsimony 
is  observed  in  doling  out  a  scanty  nook  —  a  gloomy  corner  — a 
little  portion  of  earth  to  those  whom,  when  alive,  kingdoms 
could  not  satisfy  ;  and  how  many  shapes,  and  forms,  and  arti- 
fices, are  devised  to  catch  the  casual  notice  of  the  passenger, 
and  save  from  forgetfulncss,  for  a  few  short  years,  a  name 
which  once  aspired  to  occupy  ages  of  the  world's  thought  and 
admiration. 

I  passed  some  time  in  Poet's  Corner,  which  occupies  an  end 
of  one  of  the  transepts  or  cross  aisles  of  the  abbey.  The  monn- 
ments  are  generally  simple ;  for  the  lives  of  literary  men  alTonl 
no  striking  themes  for  the  sculptor.  Shakspeare  and  Addison 
have  statues  erected  to  their  memories ;  but  the  greater  part 
have  busts,  medallions,  and  sometimes  mere  inscriptions.  Not- 
withstanding the  simplicity  of  these  memorials,  I  have  always 
observed  that  the  visitors  to  the  abbey  remain  longest  about 
them.  A  kinder  and  fonder  feeling  takes  place  of  that  cold 
curiosity  or  vague  admiration  with  which  the}'  gaze  on  the 
splendid  monuments  of  the  great  and  the  heroic.  They  linger 
about  these  as  about  the  tombs  of  friends  and  companions  ;  for 
indeed  there  is  something  of  companionship  lietween  tiie  author 
and  the  reader.  Other  men  are  known  to  posterity  only 
through  the  medium  of  historj',  which  is  continualh'  growinii 
faint  and  obsctire  ;  but  the  intercourse  between  the  author  and 
his  fellow-men  is  ever  new,  active,  and  immediate.  He  has 
lived  for  them  more  than  for  himself;  he  has  sacrificed  sur- 
rounding enjoyments,  and  shut  himself  up  from  the  <lelights  of 
social  life,  that  he  might  the  more  intimatel}-  commune  with 
distant  minds  and  distant  ages.  Well  may  the  world  cherish 
his  renown  ;  for  it  has  l)een  purchased,  not  by  deeds  of  violence 
and  blood,  but  by  tiie  diligent  dispensation  of  pleasure.  AVoU 
may  posterity  be  grateful  to  his  memory ;  for  he  has  loft  it  an 
inheritance,  not  of  empty  names  and  sounding  actions,  but 
whole  treasures  of  wisdom,  bright  gems  of  thought,  and  golden 
veins  of  language. 


1 


From  Poet' 
of  the  abbey 
wandered  am 
occupied  by  tl 
turn,  I  met 
some  powerfu 
into  these  di 
quaint  etfigie 
others  stretcli 
together;  wa 
ates,  with  cro 
nets,  lyiug  as 
strangely  pop 
it  seems  ahno 
city,  where 
stone. 

1  paused  tc 

knight  in  con 

the  hands   vn 

hreast;  the 

were  crossed 

the  holy  war 

military  enth 

raance,  and  ' 

fact  and  (i<'ti( 

is  somethinjj 

adventurers, 

ings  and  Go 

ehai)els  in  wl 

them,  the   ii 

associations, 

pageanti-y,  v 

ulchre  of  Ch 

of  beings  pj 

with  which  t 

some  Strang 

knowledge, 

visionary. 

those  elHgieJ 

death,  or  in 

effect  iufinit 

ful  attitudes 

which   abou 

also,  wilU  tl 


WBSTMlNSTEn  ABB  ST. 


133 


From  Poet's  Corner  I  continued  ray  stroll  towards  that  part 
of  the  abbey  which  contains  the  sepulchres  of  the  kings.  I 
wandered  among  what  once  were  chapels,  but  which  are  now 
occupied  by  the  tombs  and  monuments  of  the  great.  At  every 
turn,  I  met  with  some  illustrious  name,  or  the  cognizance  of 
801110  powerful  house  renowned  in  history.  As  the  eye  darts 
into  these  dusky  chambers  of  deatli,  it  catches  glimpses  of 
quaint  effigies:  some  kneeling  in  niches,  as  if  in  devotion; 
otiieis  stretched  upon  the  tombs,  with  hands  piously  pressed 
together ;  warriors  in  armor,  as  if  reposing  after  battle  ;  prel- 
ates, with  crosiers  and  mitres ;  and  nobles  in  robes  and  coro- 
nets, lying  as  it  were  in  state.  In  glancing  over  this  scene,  so 
stiaugely  populous,  yet  where  every  form  is  so  still  and  silent, 
it  seems  almost  as  if  we  were  treading  a  mansion  of  that  fabled 
city,  where  every  being  had  been  suddenly  transmuted  into 
stone. 

1  paused  to  contemplate  a  tomb  on  which  lay  the  effigy  of  a 
knight  in  complete  armor.  A  large  buckler  was  on  one  arm  ; 
the  hands  were  pressed  together  in  supplication  upon  the 
breast ;  the  face  was  almost  covered  by  the  morion  ;  the  legs 
were  crossed  in  token  of  the  warrior's  having  been  engaged  in 
the  hoi}'  war.  It  was  the  tomb  of  a  crusader ;  of  one  of  those 
military  enthusiasts,  who  so  strangely  mingled  religion  and  ro- 
mance, and  whose  exploits  form  the  connecting  link  between 
fact  and  fiction  —  between  the  history  and  the  fairy  tale.  There 
is  something  extremely  picturesque  in  the  tombs  of  these 
adventurers,  decorated  as  tiiey  are  with  rude  armorial  bear- 
ings and  Gothic  sculpture.  They  comport  with  the  antiquated 
chapels  in  which  they  are  generally  found  ;  and  in  considering 
them,  the  imagination  is  apt  to  kindle  with  the  legendary 
associations,  the  romantic  fiction,  the  chivalrous  pomp  and 
pageantiy,  which  poetry  has  spread  over  the  wars  for  the  Sep- 
ulchre of  Christ.  They  are  the  relics  of  times  utterly  gone  by ; 
of  beings  passed  from  recollection  ;  of  customs  and  manners 
with  which  ours  have  no  aflhiity.  They  are  like  objects  from 
some  strange  and  distant  land,  of  which  we  have  no  certain 
knowledge,  and  about  which  all  our  conceptions  are  vague  and 
visionary.  There  is  something  extremely  solemn  and  awful  in 
those  efligies  on  Gothic  tombs,  extended  as  if  in  the  sleep  of 
death,  or  in  the  supplication  of  the  dying  hour.  They  have  an 
effect  infinitely  more  impressive  on  my  feelings  than  the  fanci- 
ful attitudes,  the  overwrought  conceits,  and  allegorical  groups, 
which  abound  on  modern  monuments.  I  have  been  struck, 
also,  with  the  superiority  of  many  of  the  old  sepulchral  inscrip* 


''  il 


I  i 


4J 


.  *  ^j»  ♦.^-. 


194 


THE  SKETCH-BOOS, 


i    I 


tions.  There  was  a  noble  way,  in  former  times,  of  saying 
things  simply,  and  yet  saying  them  proudly  :  and  I  do  not  know 
an  epitaph  that  breathes  a  loftier  consciousness  of  family  worth 
and  honorable  lineage,  than  one  which  alHrms,  of  a  noble 
house,  that  ''  all  the  brothers  were  brave,  and  aQ  the  sisters 
virtuous." 

In  the  opposite  transept  to  Poet's  Corner,  stands  a  monument 
which  is  among  the  most  renowned  achievements  of  modern 
art;  but  which,  to  me,  appears  horrible  ratlier  than  sublime. 
It  is  the  tomb  of  Mrs.  Nightingale,  by  Roubillac.  The  bottom 
of  the  monument  is  represented  as  throwing  open  its  marlilc 
doors,  and  a  sb.eeted  skeleton  is  starting  forth.  The  shroud  k 
falling  from  his  fleshless  frame  as  he  launches  his  dart  at  liis 
victim.  She  is  sinking  into  her  affrighted  husband's  anus, 
who  strives,  with  vain  and  frantic  effort,  to  avert  the  blow. 
The  whole  is  executed  with  terrible  truth  and  spirit ;  we  almost 
fancy  we  hear  the  gil)bcring  yell  of  triumph,  bursting  from  the 
distended  jaws  of  the  spectre.  —  But  why  should  we  thus  seek 
to  clothe  death  with  unnecessary  terrors,  and  to  spread  horrois 
round  the  tomb  of  those  we  love  ?  The  grave  should  be  sur- 
rounded by  every  thing  that  might  inspire  tenderness  and  ven- 
eration for  the  dead  ;  or  that  might  win  the  living  to  virtue.  It 
is  the  place,  not  of  disgust  and  dismay,  but  of  sorrow  and 
meditation. 

While  wandering  about  these  gloomy  vaults  and  silent  ais'es, 
studying  the  records  of  tiie  dead,  the  sound  of  busy  eAistenoe 
from  without  occasionally  reaches  the  ear  :  —  the  rumbling  of 
the  passing  equipage  ;  the  murmur  of  the  multitude  ;  or  perhaps 
the  light  laugh  of  pleasure.  The  contrast  is  striking  with  the 
deathlike  repose  around  ;  and  it  has  a  strange  effect  upon  the 
feelings,  tluis  to  hear  the  surges  of  active  life  hurrying  along 
and  beating  against  the  very  walls  of  the  sepulchre. 

I  continued  in  this  way  to  move  from  tomb  to  tomb,  and 
from  chapel  to  chapel.  The  day  was  gradually  wearing  away ; 
the  distant  tread  of  loiterers  about  the  abbey  grew  less  and  less 
frequent;  the  sweet-tongued  bell  was  summoning  to  eveninjj; 
prayers ;  and  I  saw  at  a  distance  the  choristers,  in  their  white 
surplices,  crossing  the  aisle  and  entering  the  choir.  I  stood 
before  the  entrance  to  Henry  the  Seventh's  chapel.  A  flight  of 
steps  leads  up  to  it,  through  a  deep  and  gloomy,  but  magnifi- 
cent arch.  Creat  gates  of  brass,  richly  and  delicately  wrought, 
turn  heavily  upon  their  hinges,  as  if  proudly  reluctant  to 
admit  the  feet  of  common  mortals  into  this  most  gorgeous  of 
sepulchres. 


On  entering, 
ture,  and  the  e 
walls  arc  wro 
tracery,  and  s( 
saints  and  imir 
chisel,  to  have 
aloft,  as  >f  by 
wonderful  niiii 

Along  tlie 

Xniiilits  of  the 

tystiue  deeorat 

the  stalls  are  i 

their  scarfs  an 

banners,  embl 

the  splendor  o 

fretwork  of  tl 

stands   the    s( 

of  liis  queen, 

surrounded  by 

There  is  a  s 

mixture  of  to 

asi>iring  ambi 

and    oblivion 

Nothing  iujpr 

than  to  tread 

and  pageant. 

knights  and  t' 

ireons  banner: 

lion  conjured 

valor  and  be 

jewelled  rank 

feet,  and  the 

away ;  the  si 

interrupted  c 

found  their  ' 

its  friezes  an 

tion.     When 

were  those  o1 

tossing  upon 

some  minglii 

seeking  to  c: 

shadowy  hoi 

Two  small 

ing  instance 


WEf^TMINSTER   ABBEY. 


135 


On  entering,  the  e^c  is  astonished  by  the  pomp  of  architec- 
ture, and  tiio  chihoratc  beauty  of  sculptured  detail.  The  very 
walls  .arc  wnnigiit  into  universal  ornament,  encrusted  with 
tracery,  and  scooped  into  niches,  crowded  with  the  statues  of 
saints  and  iruirtyrs.  Stone  seems,  by  th"  cunning  labor  of  the 
oliist'l.  to  have  been  robbed  of  its  weight  and  density',  suspended 
aloft,  as  if  l>y  magic,  and  the  fretted  roof  achieved  with  the 
wonderful  niinufcncss  and  airy  security  of  a  cobweb. 

Along  the  sides  of  the  chapel  are  the  lofty  stalls  ^ '  the 
Kniglits  of  the  Hath,  richly  carved  of  oak,  though  with  the  gro- 
tesiiue  decorations  of  Gothic  architecture.  On  the  pinnacles  of 
the  stalls  arc  aliixcd  the  helmets  and  crests  of  the  knights,  with 
their  scarfs  and  swords  ;  and  above  them  are  suspended  their 
banners,  emblazoned  with  armorial  bearings,  and  contrasting 
the  splendor  of  gold  and  purple  and  crimson,  with  the  cold  gray 
fretwork  of  the  roof.  In  the  midst  of  this  gr."ud  mausoleum 
stands  the  .sepulchre  of  its  founder,  —  his  edigy,  with  that 
of  Ills  queen,  extended  on  a  sumptuous  tomb,  and  the  whole 
surrounded  by  a  superbly  wrought  brazen  railing. 

riiere  is  a  sad  dreariness  in  this  magnilicence ;  this  strange 
mixture  of  toukbs  and  trophies;  these  emblems  of  living  and 
aspiring  ambition,  close  beside  mementos  which  show  the  dust 
and  ol)livion  in  which  all  nnist  sooner  or  later  terminate. 
Nothing  impresses  the  mind  with  a  deeper  feeling  of  loneliness, 
liian  to  tread  tin;  silent  and  deserted  scene  of  former  throng 
and  |)ageant.  On  looking  round  on  the  v.acant  stalls  of  the 
kniglits  and  their  es(juires,  and  on  the  rows  of  dusty  but  gor- 
•leons  banners  tli;i  were  once  borne  before  them,  my  imagina- 
tion conjured  up  the  seene  when  this  hall  w.as  bright  with  the 
valor  and  beauty  of  tlu-  land  ;  glittering  with  the  splendor  of 
jewelled  rank  and  military  array  ;  alive  with  the  tread  of  many 
feet,  and  the  hum  of  an  admiring  multitude.  All  had  passed 
away ;  the  silence  of  death  had  settled  again  upon  the  place, 
interrupted  only  by  the  casual  chirping  of  birds,  which  had 
found  their  way  into  the  chapel,  and  built  their  nests  among 
its  friezes  and  pendants  —  sure  signs  of  solitariness  and  deser- 
tion. When  1  read  the  names  inscribed  on  the  baimers,  they 
were  those  of  men  scattered  far  and  wide  about  the  world  ;  some 
tossing  upon  distant  seas ;  some  under  arms  in  distant  lauds ; 
some  mingling  in  the  busy  intrigues  of  courts  and  cabinets :  all 
seeking  to  deserve  one  more  distinction  in  this  mansion  of 
sliadowy  honors  —  the  melancholy  reward  of  a  monument. 

Two  small  aisles  on  each  side  of  this  chapel  present  a  touch- 
ing instance  of  the  equality  of  the  grave,  which  brings  down 


■  % 


136 


THE  SKETCn-BOOK. 


I       I 


n'< .'  i 


the  oppressor  to  a  level  with  the  oppressed,  and  minglos  the 
dust  of  the  bitterest  enemies  together.  In  one  is  thi'  Hcpulohre 
of  the  haughty  Klizuheth  ;  in  the  other  is  that  of  her  victim, 
the  lovely  and  unfortunate  Mary.  Not  an  liour  in  tlu>  day,  but 
some  ejaculation  of  pity  is  uttered  over  the  fate  of  the  latter, 
mingled  witli  indignation  at  her  oppressor.  The  walls  of  Kllza- 
beth's  sepulchre  continually  echo  with  the  sighs  of  syui[)iitliy 
heaved  at  the  grave  of  her  rival. 

A  peculiar  melancholy  reigns  over  the  aisle  where  Mtiry  lies 
buried.  The  light  struggles  dimly  through  windows  darkoued 
by  dust.  Tiie  greater  part  of  the  place  is  in  deep  shadow,  and 
the  walls  are  stained  and  tinted  by  time  and  weatlier.  A 
marble  figure  of  Mary  is  stretched  ui)on  tlie  tomb,  round  which 
is  an  iron  railing,  mucii  corroded,  bearing  her  national  eniltk'ni 
—  the  thistle.  I  was  weary  with  wandering,  and  sat  ilowii 
to  rest  myself  by  the  monument,  revolving  in  my  mind  the 
chequered  and  disastious  story  of  poor  JNIary. 

The  sound  of  casual  footsteps  had  ceased  from  the  abl)oy.  I 
could  only  hear,  now  and  then,  the  distant  voice  of  the  priest 
repeating  the  evening  service,  and  the  faint  responses  of  tiie 
choir;  these  paused  for  a  time,  and  all  was  huslicd.  Tlie  still- 
ness, the  desertion  and  obscurity  tliat  were  gradually  prevail- 
ing around,  gave  a  deeper  and  more  solemn  interest  to  the 
place : 

For  in  the  Hllent  grave  no  converHnUon, 
No  joyful  trend  of  friendii,  no  voice  of  lovers, 
No  careful  fnthcr's  couuiel  —  noltiltiu'V  licard, 
For  iiotliiiii;  iH,  Ijut  all  oblivion, 
Dual,  and  an  endless  Uarl<ueiiH. 


Suddenly  the  notes  of  the  deep-laboring  organ  burst  upon  the 
ear,  falling  with  doubled  and  redoubled  intensity,  and  lolliiig 
as  it  were,  huge  billows  of  sound.  How  well  do  their  voliiine 
and  giaudeur  accord  with  this  mighty  building!  Witii  wiiat 
pomp  do  they  swell  througli  its  vast  vaults,  and  Ineatiie  their 
awful  harmony  through  these  caves  of  death,  and  make  the 
silent  sepulchi'e  vocal !  —  And  now  they  rise  in  triumph  and  ac- 
clamation, heaving  higher  and  higher  their  accordant  notes, 
and  piling  sound  on  sound.  — Anil  now  they  pause,  and  tlie  soft 
voices  of  the  choir  break  out  into  sweet  gushes  of  melotly  ;  they 
soar  aloft,  and  warble  along  the  roof,  and  seem  to  play  about 
these  lofty  vaults  like  the  pure  airs  of  heaven.  Again  the  peal- 
ing organ  heaves  its  thrilling  thunders,  ccmpiessing  air  into 
music,  and  rolling  it  foilli  upon  the  soul.  What  long-ihawu 
catleiices  !     What  solemn  sweeping  coucurds  !     ll  grows  more 


;  i 


^;u''i 


I  I 


'    5- 


CORONATION    CHAIR. 


m!    . 


HI 


511(1  more  dcnsi 
•0  jai  the  very 
(vhelnicd.  Aik 
from  the  earth 
rioated  upward 

I  sat  for  son 
)f  miitiic  is  ap 
<scvc  gradually 
to  cast  deeper 
(rave  token  of 

I  rose,  and 

the  flight  of  st 

,.yc  was  caugh 

ascended  the  s 

tlioiicc   a  gen 

shrine  is  cleva 

are  the  sepulc 

eminence  the  « 

phies  to  the  cl 

whore  warriori 

ing  in  their  " 

chair  of  coro 

aste  of  a  rem 

as  if  contrive 

upon  the  beiu: 

end  of  human 

from  the  thro 

these  incongr 

lesson  to  livir 

its  proudest 

must  soon   i 

brow  must  pa 

;lisgraces  of 

meanest  of  tl 

is  here  no  io 

some  natures 

lowed  things 

vcnge  on  the 

servility  whic 

the  Confesso 

of  their  fiini 

tiie  hand  of 

the  Fifth  lio^ 

proof  liow  f; 


WESTMiySTER  ABBEY. 


137 


5nd  more  dense  and  powerful  —  it  fills  the  vast  pile,  anrt  seems 
;o  jai  the  very  walls  —  the  ear  is  stunned  —  the  sen&es  are  over- 
whelmed. And  now  it  is  winding  up  in  full  jubilee  —  it  is  rising 
from  the  earth  to  heaven  —  the  very  soul  seems  rapt  away,  and 
lioated  upwards  on  this  swelling  tide  of  harmony  ! 

I  sat  for  some  time  lost  in  that  kind  of  reverie  which  a  strain 
)f  music  is  apt  sometin^.^s  to  inspire :  the  shadows  of  evening 
^cre  gradually  thickening  romd  me ;  the  monuments  began 
to  cast  deeper  and  deeper  gloom  ;  and  the  distant  clock  again 
(rave  token  of  the  slowly  waning  day. 

I  rose,  and  prepared  to  leave  the  abbey.  As  I  descended 
the  flight  of  steps  which  lead  into  the  body  of  the  building,  my 
eye  was  caught  by  the  shrine  of  Edward  the  Confessor,  and  I 
ascended  the  small  staircase  that  conducts  to  it,  to  take  from 
tlieiice  a  general  survey  of  this  wilderness  of  tombs.  The 
sliiine  is  elevated  upon  a  kind  of  platform,  and  close  around  it 
are  the  sepulchres  of  various  kings  and  queens.  From  this 
ernineiice  the  eye  loi^ks  down  between  pillars  and  funeral  tro- 
pliios  to  the  chapels  and  chambers  below,  crowded  with  tombs  ; 
where  warriors,  prelates,  courtiers,  and  statesmen  lie  moulder- 
ing in  their  "  beds  of  darkness."  Close  by  me  stood  the  great 
chair  of  coronation,  rudely  carved  of  oak,  in  the  barbarous 
.asto  of  a  remote  and  Gothic  age.  The  scene  seemed  almost 
as  if  contrived,  with  theatrical  artifice,  to  produce  an  effect 
upon  the  beholder.  Here  was  a  type  of  the  beginning  and  the 
end  of  human  pomp  and  power ;  here  it  was  literally  but  a  step 
from  the  throne  to  the  sepulchre.  Would  not  one  t'^ink  that 
these  incongruous  mciuentos  had  been  gathered  togetner  as  a 
lesson  to  living  greatness? — to  show  it,  even  in  the  moment  of 
its  proudest  exaltation,  the  neglect  and  dishonor  to  which  it 
must  soon  arrive?  how  soon  that  crown  which  encircles  its 
brow  must  pass  away ;  and  it  must  lie  down  in  the  dust  and 
disgraces  of  the  tomb,  and  be  trampled  upon  by  the  feet  of  the 
meanest  of  the  multitude  ?  For,  Strang-:;  to  tell,  even  the  grave 
is  here  no  longer  a  sanctuary.  There  is  a  shocking  levity  in 
some  natures,  which  leads  them  to  spoit  with  awful  and  hal- 
lowed things ;  and  there  are  base  minds,  which  delight  to  re- 
venge on  the  illustrious  dead  the  abject  homage  and  grovelling 
servility  which  they  pay  to  the  living.  The  coflSn  of  Edward 
tile  Confessor  has  beon  broken  open,  and  his  remains  despoiled 
of  tlu'ir  fimeral  ornaments;  the  scci)trc  lins  been  stolen  from 
tlic  liand  of  the  imperious  p^lizabeth,  and  the  effigy  of  Henry 
llie  Fifth  lies  headless.  Not  a  royal  monument  but  bears  some 
proof  how  false  and  fugitive  ia  the  homage  of  mankind.     Some 


'.  ■  I* 


1 

i 
l' 

1  , 

\ 

i(: 

\ 

ll^; 

1 

m[ 

133 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


f|  ,'ii 


are  plundered ;   some  mutilated  ;   some   covered  with  ribaldry 
and  insult  —  all  more  or  less  outraged  and  dishonored  ! 

Th'j  last  beams  of  day  were  now  faintly  streaming  tiu-oijgh 
the  painted  windows  in  the  high  vaults  above  me ;  the  lower 
parts  of  the  abbey  were  already  wrapped  in  the  obscurity  of 
twilight.  The  chapels  and  aisles  grew  darker  and  darker.  The 
efligies  of  the  kings  faded  into  shadows  ;  the  marble  figures  of 
the  monuments  assumed  strange  sliapes  in  the  uncertain  light; 
the  evening  bree.re  crept  through  the  aisles  like  the  cold  l)reath 
of  the  gravo  ;  and  even  the  distant  footfall  of  a  verger,  travers- 
ing the  Poet's  Cori)er,  had  something  strange  and  dreary  in 
its  sound.  I  slowly  retraced  my  morning's  walk,  and  as  I 
passed  out  at  the  portal  of  the  cloisters,  the  door,  closing 
with  a  jarring  noise  behind  me,  filled  the  whole  building  with 
echoes. 

I  endeavored  to  form  some  arrangement  in  my  mind  of  the 
objects  I  hfi'l  l;een  contemplating,  but  found  they  were  already 
falling  into  indistinctness  and  confusion.  Names,  inscriptions, 
trophies,  iuvd  all  become  confounded  in  my  recollection,  though 
I  had  scarcely  taken  my  foot  from  off  the  threshold.  What, 
thought  I,  is  this  vast  assemblage  of  sepulchres  but  a  treasury 
of  humiliation  ;  a  huge  pih;  of  reiterated  homil  es  on  the  empti- 
ness of  renown,  and  the  certainty  of  oblivior  .''  It  is,  indeed, 
the  empire  of  Deaili ;  his  great  shadowy  palr.ce  ;  where  he  sits 
in  state,  mocking  at  the  relics  of  human  gldry,  and  spreading,' 
dust  and  forgetfulness  on  the  monuments  of  princes.  IIow  idle 
a  boast,  after  all,  is  the  immortality  of  a  name  !  Time  is  evxr 
silently  turning  over  his  pages ;  we  are  too  much  engross-^d  bj 
the  story  of  the  present,  to  think  of  the  characters  and  anec- 
dotes that  gave  interest  to  the  past ;  and  each  age  is  a  volinnc 
thrown  aside  to  be  speeilily  forgotten.  The  idol  of  to-day 
pushes  the  hero  of  yesterday  out  of  our  recoUecMon  ;  and  will, 
in  turn,  be  supplanted  by  his  successor  of  to-morrow.  "Our 
fath'^-b,"  says  Sir  Thomas  Brov'n,  "  find  their  graves  in  our 
short  memories,  and  oadly  tell  r.s  how  we  may  })e  buried  in  our 
survivors."  History  fpdes  into  fable;  fact  becomes  clouded 
with  doubt  and  controversy  ;  the  inscription  moulders  from  the 
tablet;  the  statue  falls  from  the  pedestal.  Columns,  ar<!ies, 
pyramids,  what  are  they  but  heaps  of  sand  — and  their  epitai)lis, 
but  characters  written  in  the  dust?  What  is  the  security  of 
the  tomb,  or  the  i)eri)etuitv  of  an  enibaluuucnt?  The  remauis 
of  Alexander  the  Great  il^a•e  been  scattered  to  the  wind,  and 
his  empty  sarcophagus  is  now  the  mere  curiosity  of  a  museum. 
"  The  Egyptian  mummies  which  Cambyses  or  time  hath  spared, 


CHRISTMAS. 


139 


avarice  now  consumeth ;  Mizraim  cures  wounds,  and  Pharaoh 
is  sold  for  balsams."  ^ 

What  then  is  to  insure  this  pile,  which  now  towers  above 
me,  from  sharing  the  fate  of  mightier  mausoleums?  The  time 
must  come  when  its  gilded  vaults,  which  now  spring  so  loftily, 
shall  lie  in  rubbish  beneath  the  feet ;  when,  instead  of  the  sound 
of  melody  and  praise,  the  wind  shall  whistle  through  the 
broken  arches,  and  the  owl  hoot  from  the  shattered  tower  — 
wlicii  the  garish  sunbeam  shall  break  into  ti.ese  gloomy  man- 
sions of  death  ;  and  the  ivy  twine  round  the  fallen  column  ;  and 
tlic  fox-glove  hang  its  blossoms  about  the  nameless  urn,  as  if  in 
mockery  of  the  dead.  Thus  man  passes  away  ;  his  name  per- 
iblics  from  record  and  recollection  ;  his  history  is  as  a  tale  that 
is  told,  and  his  very  mouumeut  becomes  a  ruin. 2 


CHRISTMAS. 


But  Is  old,  old,  good  old  Christraaa  gone?  Nothing  but  the  hair  of  his  good,  gray 
old  head  and  beard  left?    Well,  I  will  have  thai,  seeing  I  cannot  have  more  of  him. 

Hue  AMU  CitY  aftek  Christuas. 

A  man  might  then  behold 

At  Christmas,  in  each  halt, 
Qood  fires  to  cui°b  the  cold. 

And  meat  for  great  and  small. 
The  neighbors  were  friendly  bidden, 

And  all  had  welcome  true, 
The  poor  from  the  gates  were  not  chidden, 

When  this  old  cap  was  new.  —  Old  Sono. 

Nothing  in  England  exercises  a  more  delightful  spell  over 
riiV  imagination  than  the  lingerings  of  the  holichiy  cusioius 
iiiid  iiiral  games  of  former  times.  They  recall  the  pictures 
aiy  faucy  used  to  draw  in  the  May  morning  of  life,  wheu 
ns  yet  1  only  knew  the  world  through  books,  and  believed  it  to 
i:i'  all  that  poets  had  painted  it;  aiul  they  luring  wiih  them  tlie 
flavor  of  tiioso  honest  days  of  yoiv,  in  which,  perhaps  wiLli 
*'(liia[  fallacy.  I  am  apt  lo  Uiink  the  world  was  more  iioiiu'- 
hrcd,  social,  and  joyous  than  at  present.  I  regret  to  say  that 
tliey  are  daily  growing  more  and  more  faint,  being  gradually 
worn  away  by  time,  but  stiil  more  obliterated  by  modern 
fashion.     They  resemble  those  picturesque  morsels  of  Gothic 

>  8ir  ThomM  Brown. 
*  AppeuUiXt  Note  3. 


1 1 


P 


( 


fill      • 


v'lii 


i!'l 


I  ■* 


140 


THE  SKETCD-BOOK. 


architecture,  which  wc  sec  crumbling  in  various  parts  of  tha 
country,  partly  dilapidated  by  the  waste  of  ages,  and  partly 
lost  in  the  additions  and  alterations  of  later  days.  Poetry, 
however,  clings  witii  cherishing  fondness  about  the  rural  game 
and  holiday  revel,  from  which  it  has  derived  so  many  of  its 
themes  —  as  the  ivy  winds  its  rich  foliage  about  the  (lotiiic  arch 
and  mouldering  tower,  gratefully  repaying  their  sui)port,  by 
clasping  together  their  tottering  remains,  and,  as  it  were,  em- 
balming  them  in  veidure. 

Of  all  the  old  festivals,  however,  that  of  Christmas  awakens 
the  strongest  and  most  heartfelt  associations.  There  is  a  tone 
of  solemn  and  sacred  feeling  that  blends  with  our  conviviality, 
and  lifts  the  spirit  to  a  state  of  hallowed  and  elevated  enjoy- 
ment.  The  services  of  the  church  about  this  season  are  ex- 
tremely tender  and  inspiring :  they  dwell  on  the  beautiful  story 
of  the  origin  of  our  faith,  and  the  pastoral  scenes  that  accom'- 
panied  its  announcement :  the}'  gradually  increase  in  fervor  and 
pathos  during  the  season  of  Advent,  until  the}'  break  fortli  in 
full  jubilee  on  the  moining  that  brought  peace  and  good-will 
to  men.  I  do  not  know  a  grander  effect  of  music  on  tlie  moral 
feelings  than  to  hear  the  full  choir  and  the  pealing  organ  per- 
forming a  Christmas  anthem  in  a  cathedral,  and  filling  every 
part  of  the  vast  pile  with  triumphant  harmony. 

It  is  a  beautiful  arrangement,  also,  derived  from  days  of 
yore,  that  this  festival,  which  commemorates  the  announcenunit 
of  the  religion  of  peace  and  love,  has  been  made  the  season 
for  gathering  together  of  family  connections,  and  drawing  closer 
again  those  bands  of  kindred  hearts,  which  the  cares  and  pleas- 
ures and  sorrows  of  the  world  are  continually  operating  to 
cast  loose ;  of  calling  back  the  children  of  a  family,  who  iiave 
launched  forth  in  life,  and  wandered  widely  asunder,  once  more 
to  assemble  about  the  paternal  hearth,  that  rallying-plaoe  of 
the  affections,  there  to  grow  young  and  loving  again  among  the 
endearing  mementos  of  childhood. 

There  is  something  in  the  very  season  of  the  year,  that  gives 
a  charm  to  the  festivity  of  Christmas.  At  other  times,  we  de- 
rive a  great  portion  of  our  pleasures  from  the  mere  beauties  of 
Nature.  Our  feelings  s.ally  forth  and  dissipate  themselves  over 
the  sunny  landscape,  and  we  "  live  abroad  and  everywhere." 
The  song  of  the  bird,  the  murmur  of  the  stream,  the  breathing 


frajirance  of 


spring,  the  soft  voluptuousness  of  summer,  the 


golden  pomp  of  autumn  ;  eai  Ji  with  its  mantle  of  refreshing 
green,  and  heaven  with  its  deep  delicious  blue  and  its  cloudy 
magnificence,  —  all  fill  us  with  mute  but  exquisite  delight,  and 


CHRISTMAS. 


141 


we  revel  in  the  luxury  of  mere  sensation.  But  in  the  depth  of 
winter,  when  Nature  lies  despoiled  of  every  charm,  and  wrapped 
in  her  shroud  of  sheeted  snow,  we  turn  for  our  gratifications  to 
moral  sources.  The  dreariness  and  desolation  of  the  landscape, 
the  sliort  gloomy  days  and  darksome  nights,  while  they  circum- 
scribe our  wanderings,  shut  in  our  feelings  also  from  rambling 
abroad,  and  make  us  more  keenly  disposed  for  the  pleasures 
of  the  social  circle.  Our  thoughts  are  more  concentrated  ;  our 
friendly  sympathies  more  aroused.  We  feel  more  sensibly  the 
charm  of  each  other's  society,  and  are  brought  more  closely 
togetlier  by  dependence  on  each  other  for  enjoyment.  Heart 
calletli  unto  heart,  and  we  draw  our  pleasures  from  the  deep 
wells  of  loving-kindness  which  lie  in  the  quiet  recesses  of  our 
bosoms ;  and  which,  when  resorted  to,  furnish  forth  the  pure 
element  of  domestic  felicity. 

Tlic  pitchy  gloom  without  makes  the  heart  dilate  on  entering 
the  room  filled  with  the  glow  and  warmth  of  the  evening  fire. 
The  ruddy  blaze  diffuses  an  artificial  summer  and  sunshine 
through  the  room,  and  lights  up  each  countenance  into  a  kind- 
lier welcome.  Where  does  the  honest  face  of  hospitality  ex- 
pand into  a  broader  and  more  cordial  smile  —  where  is  the  shy 
glance  of  love  more  sweetly  eloquent  —  than  by  the  winter  fire- 
side? and  as  the  hollow  blast  of  wintry  wind  rushes  through 
the  hall,  claps  the  distant  door,  whistles  about  the  casement, 
and  rumbles  down  the  chimney,  what  can  be  more  grateful 
than  that  feeling  of  sober  and  sheltered  security,  with  which 
we  look  round  upon  the  comfortable  chamber,  and  the  sceuo  of 
domestic  hilarity? 

The  English,  from  the  great  prevalence  of  rural  habits 
throughout  every  class  of  society,  have  always  been  fond  of 
those  festivals  and  holidays  which  agreeably  interrupt  the 
stillness  of  country  life ;  and  they  were  in  former  days  particu- 
larly observant  of  the  religious  and  social  rights  of  Christmas. 
It  is  inspiring  to  read  even  the  dry  details  which  some  anti- 
quaries have  given  of  the  quaint  humors,  the  burlesque  pageants, 
the  comi)lete  abandonment  to  nnrtli  and  good-fellowship,  with 
which  this  festival  was  celebrated.  It  seemed  to  throw  open 
every  door,  and  unlock  every  heart.  It  brought  the  peasant 
and  the  peer  together,  and  l)lended  all  ranks  in  one  warm  gen- 
erous flow  of  joy  and  kindness.  The  old  halls  of  castles  and 
manor-houses  resounded  with  the  harp  and  the  Christmas  carol, 
and  their  ample  boards  groaned  under  the  weight  of  hospitality. 
Even  the  |)oorest  cottage  welcomed  the  festive  season  with 
green  decorations  of  bay  and  Lolly  —  the  cheerful  iiie  glanced 


! 


< 


\.\>' 


■  <     ! 


142 


THE  SKETCn-nOOK. 


n     ':i 


i' 


i\ 


its  rays  through  the  lattice,  inviting  the  passengers  to  raise  tlie 
latch,  and  join  the  gossip  knot  huddled  round  the  hearth,  be- 
gulling  the  long  evening  with  legendary  jokes,  and  oft-told 
Christmas  tales. 

One  of  the  least  pleasing  effects  of  modern  refinement  is  the 
havoc  it  has  made  among  the  hearty  old  holiday  customs.    It 
has  completely  taken  off  the  sliarp  touchings  and  spirited  reliefs 
of  these  embellishments  of  life,  and  has  worn  down  society  into 
a  morft  smooth  and  polished,  but  certainly  a  less  characteristic 
surface.     Many  of  the  games  and  ceremonials  of  Christmas 
have  entirely  disappeared,  and,  like  the  sherris  sack  of  old  Fal- 
staflf,  are  become  matters  of   speculation  and  dispute  among 
commentators.     They  flourished  in  times  full  of  spirit  and  lusti- 
hood,  when  men  enjoyed  life  roughly,  but  heartily  and  vigor- 
ously :  times  wild  and  picturesque,  which  iiave  furnished  poetry 
with  its  richest  materials,  r.:id  the  drama  with  its  most  attrac- 
tive variety  of  characters  and  manners.     The  world  has  become 
more  worldly.     There  is  more  of  dissipation  and  loss  of  enjoy- 
ment.    Pleasure  has  expanded  into  a  broader,  but  a  shallower 
stream,  and  has  forsaken  many  of  those  deep  and  quiet  chan- 
nels, where  it  flowed  sweetly  through  the  calm  bosom  of  domes- 
tic life.     Society  has  acquired  a  more  enlightened  and  elegant 
tone ;  but  it  has  lost  many  of  its  strong  local  peculiarities,  its 
homebred  feelings,  its  honest  fireside  delights.     The  tradition- 
ary customs  of  golden-hearted  antiquity,  its  feudal  hospitalities, 
and   lordly  wassailings,  have  passed   away  with   the  baronial 
castles  and  stately  manor-houses  in  which  they  were  celebrated. 
They  comported  with  the  shadowy  hall,  the  great  oaken  gallery, 
and  the  tapestried  parlor,  but  are  unfitted  to  the  light  showy 
saloons  and  gay  drawing-rooms  of  the  modern  villa. 

Shorn,  however,  as  it  is,  of  its  ancient  and  festive  honors, 
Christmas  is  still  a  period  of  delightful  excitement  in  England. 
It  is  gratifying  to  see  that  home  feeling  completely  aroused 
which  holds  so  powerful  a  place  in  every  English  bosom.  The 
preparations  making  on  every  side  for  the  social  b(  ard  that  is 
again  to  unite  friends  and  kindred  —  the  presents  of  good  cheer 
passing  and  repassing,  those  tokens  of  regard  and  quickeners 
of  kind  feelings  —  the  evergreens  distributed  about  houses  and 
churches,  emblems  of  peace  and  gladness  —  all  these  have  the 
most  pleasing  effect  in  producing  fond  associations,  and  kin- 
dling benevolent  sympathies.  Even  the  sound  of  the  waits,  rude 
as  may  be  their  minstrelsy,  breaks  upon  the  uiidwatehes  of  a 
winter  night  with  the  effect  of  perfect  harmony.  As  I  have 
been  awaJtened  by  them  in  that  still  and  solemn  hour  ''wheo 


•;f  i 


CBRI8TMA8. 


143 


deep  sleep  falleth  upon  man,"  I  have  listened  with  a  hushed 
delight,  and  connecting  them  with  the  sacred  and  joyous  occa- 
sion, have  almost  fancied  them  into  another  celestial  choir, 
announcing  peace  and  good-will  to  mankind.  How  delightfully 
the  imagination,  when  wrought  upon  by  these  moral  influences, 
turns  everything  to  melody  and  beauty  !  The  very  crowing  of 
the  cock,  heard  sometimes  in  the  profound  repose  of  the  coun- 
try, "telling  the  nightwatches  to  his  feathery  dames,"  was 
thought  by  the  common  people  to  announce  the  approach  of  this 
sacred  festival :  ■ 

••  Soliae  say  that  eTer  'gminat  that  aeason  comM 
Wherein  our  Savionr's  birth  is  celebrated. 
This  bird  of  dawning  slngeth  all  night  long: 
And  then,  they  say,  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad; 
The  nights  are  wholesome  —  then  no  planets  strike. 
No  fairy  takes,  no  witch  hath  power  to  charm, 
Bo  hallowed  and  so  gracious  is  the  time." 


1         I 


iH 


Amidst  the  general  call  to  happiness,  the  bustle  of  the  spirits, 
and  stir  of  the  affections,  which  prevail  at  this  period,  what 
bosom  can  remain  insensible  ?  It  is,  indeed,  the  season  of 
regenerated  feeling  —  the  season  for  kindling  not  merely  the 
fire  of  hospitality  in  the  hall,  but  the  genial  flame  of  charity  in 
the  heart.  The  scene  of  early  love  again  rises  green  to  mem- 
ory beyond  the  sterile  waste  of  years,  and  the  idea  of  home, 
fraught  with  the  fragrance  of  home-dwelling  joys,  reanimates 
the  drooping  spirit  —  as  the  Arabian  breeze  will  sometimes 
waft  the  freshness  of  the  distant  fields  to  the  weary  pilgrim  of 
the  desart. 

Stranger  and  sojourner  as  I  am  in  the  land  —  though  for  me 
no  social  hearth  may  blaze,  no  hospitable  roof  throw  open  its 
doors,  nor  the  warm  grasp  of  friendship  welcome  me  at  the 
threshold — yet  I  feel  the  influence  of  the  season  beaming  into 
my  soul  from  the  happy  looks  of  those  around  me.  Surely 
happiness  is  reflective,  like  the  light  of  heaven;  and  every 
countenance  bright  with  smiles,  and  glowing  with  innocent 
enjoyment,  is  a  mirror  transmitting  to  others  the  rays  of  a 
supreme  and  ever-shining  benevolence.  He  who  can  turn 
churlishly  away  from  contemplating  the  felicity  of  his  fellow- 
beings,  and  can  sit  down  darkling  and  repining  in  his  lone- 
liness when  all  around  is  joyful,  may  have  his  moments  of 
Strong  excitement  and  selfish  gratification,  but  he  wants  the 
genial  and  social  sympathies  which  constitute  the  charm  of  a 
merry  Christioait 


;'r 


:ii 


144 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK. 


THE  STAGE-COACH. 

Omne  henh 

Bine  p(i!D& 
Tempus  est  ludendl 

Vonlt  hora 

Absque  inor& 
LibroB  deponendi. 

Old  Holiday  School  Bono. 

In  the  preceding  paper,  I  have  made  some  general  observa^ 
tions  on  the  Christmas  festivities  of  P^ngland,  and  am  tempted 
to  illustrate  them  by  some  anecdotes  of  a  Christmas  passed 
in  the  country ;  in  perusing  which,  I  would  most  courteously 
invite  my  reader  to  lay  aside  the  austerity  of  wisdom,  and  to 
put  on  that  genuine  holiday  spirit,  which  is  tolerant  of  folly 
and  anxious  only  for  amusement. 

In  the  course  of  a  December  tour  in  Yorkshire,  I  rode  for  a 
long  distance  in  one  of  the  public  coaches,  on  the  day  preced- 
ing Christmas.  The  coach  was  crowded,  both  inside  aiul  out, 
with  passengers,  who,  by  their  talk,  seemed  principally  bouud 
to  the  mansions  of  relations  or  friends,  to  eat  the  Christmas 
dinner.  It  was  loaded  also  with  hampers  of  game,  and  baskets 
and  boxes  of  delicacies ;  and  hares  hung  dangling  their  long 
ears  about  the  coachman's  box,  presents  from  distant  friends 
for  the  impending  feast.  I  had  three  fine  rosy-cheeked  boys 
for  my  fellow-passengers  inside,  full  of  the  buxom  health  and 
manly  spirit  which  I  have  observed  in  the  children  of  this 
country.  They  were  returning  home  for  the  holidays,  in 
high  glee,  and  promising  themselves  a  world  of  enjoyment. 
It  was  deliglitful  to  hear  the  gigantic  plans  of  the  little 
rogues,  and  the  impracticable  feats  they  were  to  perform  dur- 
ing their  six  weeks'  emancipation  from  the  abhorred  tliraklora 
of  book,  birch,  and  pedagogue.  They  were  full  of  antici- 
pations of  the  meeting  with  the  family  and  household,  down  to 
the  very  cat  and  dog ;  and  of  the  joy  they  were  to  give  their 
little  sisters,  by  the  presents  with  which  their  pockets  were 
crammed ;  but  the  meeting  to  which  they  seemed  to  look  for- 
ward with  the  greatest  impatience  was  with  Bant'Mi,  which  I 
found  to  be  a  pony,  and,  according  to  their  talk,  possessed  of 
more  virtues  than  any  steed  since  the  days  of  Bucoi)hahis. 
How  he  could  trot  I  how  he  could  run  !  and  then  such  leaps  as 


he  would  take 
that  he  could  n 

They  were  i 
man,  to  whom, 
dressed  a  host 
best  fellows  ii 
the  more  thac 
coachman,  who 
bunch  of  Chris 
He  is  always 
but  he  is  part 
commissions  tc 
of  presents, 
to  my  un travel 
general  rcprest 
of  funotionari( 
air,  peculiar  t( 
ternity;  so  ths 
seen,  he  cannot 

He  has  eon: 
red,  as  if  the  t 
vessel  of  the 
quent  potatior 
increased  by  a 
a  caiilitlower,  1 
broad-briminec 
kerchief  aboul 
the  bosom  ;  an 
bis  button- hoh 
country  lass, 
striped,  and  hi! 
a  pair  of  jocke 

All  this  cos 
a  pride  in  hu^ 
withstanding  t 
still  discernab 
is  almost  inhei 
quence  and  c 
ferences  with  1 
man  of  great 
good  understa 
moment  he  ai 
throws  down  t 
the  cattle  to  t 


THE  STAGE-COACH. 


145 


he  would  take  —  there  was  not  a  hedge  in  the  whole  country 
that  he  could  not  clear. 

They  were  under  the  particular  guardianship  of  tue  coach- 
man, to  whom,  whenever  an  opportunity  presented,  they  ad- 
dressed a  host  of  questions,  and  pronounced  him  one  of  tiie 
best  fellows  in  the  world.  Indeed,  I  could  not  but  notice 
the  more  tlian  ordinary  ai,"  of  bustle  and  importance  of  the 
coachman,  who  wore  his  hat  a  little  on  one  side,  and  had  a  large 
bnncli  of  Christmas  greens  stuck  in  the  button-bole  of  his  coat. 
He  is  always  a  personage  full  of  mighty  care  and  business; 
but  he  is  particularly  so  during  this  season,  having  so  many 
commissions  to  execute  in  consequence  of  the  great  interchange 
of  presents.  And  hero,  perhaps,  it  may  not  be  unacceptable 
to  my  untravelled  readers,  to  have  a  sketch  that  may  serve  as  a 
(Tencral  representation  of  this  very  numerous  and  important  class 
of  functionaries,  who  have  a  dress,  a  manner,  a  language,  an 
air,  peculiar  to  themselves,  and  prevalent  throughout  the  fra- 
ternity ;  so  that,  wherever  an  English  stage-coachman  may  be 
seen,  he  cannot  be  mistaken  for  one  of  any  other  craft  or  mystery. 

He  lias  commonly  a  broad  full  face,  curiously  mottled  with 
red,  as  if  the  blood  had  been  forced  by  hard  feeding  into  every 
vessel  of  the  skin ;  he  is  swelled  into  jolly  dimensions  by  fre- 
quent potations  of  malt  liquors,  and  his  bulk  is  still  further 
increased  by  a  multiplicity  of  coats,  in  which  he  is  buried  like 
a  caulitlower,  the  upper  one  reaching  to  his  heels.  He  wears  a 
broad-brimmed  low-crowned  hat,  a  huge  roll  of  colored  hand- 
kerchief about  his  neck,  knowingly  knotted  and  tucked  in  at 
the  bosom  ;  and  has  in  summer-time  a  large  bouquet  of  flowers  in 
his  button-hole,  the  present,  most  probably,  of  some  enamoured 
country  lass.  His  waistcoat  is  commonly  of  some  bright  color, 
.stri|)cd,  and  his  small-clothes  extend  far  below  the  knees,  to  meet 
a  pair  of  jockey  boots  which  reach  about  half-way  up  his  legs. 

All  this  costume  is  maintained  with  much  precision ;  he  has 
a  pride  in  having  his  clothes  of  excellent  materials,  and,  not- 
withstanding the  seeming  grossness  of  his  appearance,  there  is 
still  discernable  that  neatness  and  propriety  of  person,  which 
is  almost  inherent  in  an  Englishman.  He  enjoys  great  conse- 
quence and  consideration  along  the  road ;  has  frequent  con- 
ferences with  the  village  housewives,  who  look  upon  him  as  a 
man  of  great  trust  and  dependence  ;  and  he  seems  to  have  a 
good  understanding  with  every  bright-eyed  country  lass.  The 
moment  he  arrives  where  the  horses  are  to  be  changed,  he 
throws  down  the  reins  with  something  of  an  air,  and  abandons 
the  cattle  to  the  care  of  the  hostler,  his  duty  being  merely  to 


[    ! 


,  ..1, 


Ml 


■!•  ' 


■{ 


\:' 


l> 


■i  ¥■ 


140 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


fti 


f 


ill  ^^ 

t 


drive  from  one  stage  to  another.  When  off  the  box,  his  handi 
are  thrust  into  the  i)ocket8  of  his  great-coat,  and  he  roUa  about 
the  inn-yurd  with  an  air  of  the  most  absolute  lordline 
Here  he  is  gonerally  surrounded  by  an  admiring  throng  of  hos- 
tlers, st!ibU'-l)oys,  shoeblacks,  and  those  uanit'lcss  hangors-on, 
that  iiifost  inns  and  taverns,  and  run  errands,  and  do  all  kind 
of  odd  jobs,  for  the  privilege  of  battening  on  the  drippings  of 
the  kitchen  and  the  leakage  of  the  tap- room.  These  all  look 
up  to  him  as  to  an  oracle  ;  treasure  up  his  cant  phrases  ;  echo 
his  opinions  about  horses  and  other  topics  of  jockey  lore  ;  and, 
above  all,  cMideavor  to  imitate  his  air  and  carriage.  Every  rag. 
amullin  tiiat  has  a  coat  to  his  back,  thrusts  his  hands  in  the 
pockets,  rolls  in  his  gait,  talks  slang,  and  is  an  embryo  Coachey. 

Perhaps  it  might  be  owhig  to  the  pleasing  serenity  that 
reigned  in  my  own  mind,  that  I  fancied  I  saw  cheerfulness  in 
every  countenance  throughout  the  journey.  A  Stage-Coach, 
however,  carries  animation  always  with  it,  and  puts  the  world 
in  motion  as  it  whirls  along.  The  horn,  sounded  at  the  en- 
trance  of  a  village,  produces  a  general  bustle.  Some  hasten 
forth  to  meet  friends ;  some  with  bundles  and  band-boxes  to 
secure  places,  and  in  the  hurry  of  the  moment  can  hardly  take 
leave  of  the  group  that  accompanies  them.  In  the  mean  time, 
the  coachman  has  a  world  of  small  commissions  to  execute. 
Sometimes  he  delivers  a  hare  or  pheasant ;  sometimes  jerks  a 
small  parcel  or  newspaper  to  the  door  of  a  public  house  ;  and 
sometimes,  with  knowing  leer  and  words  of  sly  import,  hands 
to  some  half-blushing,  half-laughing  housemaid,  an  odd-shaped 
billet-doux  from  some  rustic  admirer.  As  the  coach  rattles 
through  the  village,  every  one  runs  to  the  window,  and  you 
have  glances  on  every  side  of  fresh  country  faces,  and  bloom- 
ing giggling  girls.  At  the  corners  are  assembled  juntos  of  vil- 
lage idlers  and  wise  men,  who  take  their  stations  there  for  the 
important  purpose  of  seeing  company  pass :  but  the  sagest 
knot  is  generally  at  the  blacksmith's,  to  whom  the  passing  of 
tile  coach  is  an  event  fruitful  of  much  speculation.  The  smith, 
with  tile  horse's  heel  in  his  lap,  pauses  as  the  vehicle  whirls 
by  ;  the  cyclops  round  the  anvil  suspend  their  ringing  hammers, 
and  suffer  the  iron  to  grow  cool ;  and  the  sooty  spectre  in  brown 
paper  cap,  laboring  at  the  bellows,  leans  on  the  handle  for  a 
moment,  and  permits  the  asthmatic  engine  to  heave  a  long- 
drawn  sigh,  while  he  glares  through  the  murky  smoke  and  sul- 
phureous gleams  of  the  smithy. 

Perhaps  the  impending  holiday  might  have  given  a  more 
than  usual  animation  to  the  couutry,  for  it  seemed  to  me  as  if 


».^««-^ -♦-•(■ 


TUE  STAOE-COACn. 


147 


everybody  was  in  good  looks  and  good  spirits.  Game,  poul- 
try, and  other  luxuries  of  the  table,  were  in  brisk  circulation  in 
the  villages ;  the  grocers',  butchers',  and  fruiterers'  shops  were 
thronged  with  customers.  The  housewives  were  stirring  briskly 
about,  putting  their  dwellings  in  order ;  and  the  glossy  branches 
of  holly,  with  their  bright-red  berries,  began  to  appear  at  the 
windows.  The  scene  brought  to  mind  an  old  writer's  account 
of  Christmas  preparations.  *'  Now  capons  and  hens,  besides 
turkeys,  geese,  aud  ducks,  with  beef  and  mutton  —  must  all 
die  —  for  in  twelve  days  a  multitude  of  people  will  not  be  fed 
with  a  little.  Now  plums  and  spice,  sugar  aud  hone)',  square 
it  among  pies  and  broth.  Now  or  never  must  music  be  in  tune, 
for  the  youth  must  dance  and  sing  to  get  them  a  heat,  while 
the  aged  sit  by  the  tire.  The  country  maid  leaves  half  her 
market,  and  must  be  sent  again,  if  she  forgets  a  pack  of  cards 
ou  Christmas  eve.  Great  is  the  conteution  of  Holly  and  Ivy, 
whether  master  or  dame  wears  the  breeches.  Dice  and  cards 
benefit  the  butler ;  and  if  the  cook  do  not  lack  wit,  he  will 
sweetiy  lick  his  fingers." 

I  was  roused  from  this  fit  of  luxurious  meditation,  by  a 
shout  from  my  little  travelling  companions.  They  had  been 
looking  out  of  the  coach-windows  for  the  last  few  miles,  recog- 
nizing every  tree  and  cottage  as  they  approached  home,  and 
now  there  was  a  general  burst  of  joy — "  There's  John  !  and 
there's  old  Carlo !  and  there's  Bantam  !  "  cried  the  happy  little 
rogues,  clapping  their  hands. 

At  the  end  of  a  lane,  there  was  an  old  sober-looking  servant 
in  livery,  waiting  for  them  ;  he  was  accompanied  by  a  super- 
annuated pointer,  and  by  the  redoubtable  Bantam,  a  little  old 
rat  of  a  pony,  with  a  shaggy  mane  and  long  rusty  tail,  who 
stood  dozing  quietly  by  the  road-side,  little  dreaming  of  the 
bustling  times  that  awaited  him. 

I  was  pleased  to  see  the  fondness  with  which  the  little  fel- 
lows leaped  about  the  steady  old  footman,  aud  hugged  the 
pointer,  who  wriggled  his  whole  body  for  joy.  But  Bantam 
was  the  great  object  of  interest ;  all  wanted  to  mount  at  once, 
and  it  was  with  some  difficulty  that  John  arranged  that  they 
should  ride  by  turns,  and  the  eldest  should  ride  first. 

Off  they  set  at  last ;  one  on  the  pony,  with  the  dog  bounding 
and  barking  before  him,  and  the  others  holding  John's  hands; 
both  talking  at  once,  and  overpowering  him  with  questions 
about  home,  and  with  school  auecdotes.  I  looked  after  them 
with  a  feeling  in  which  I  do  not  know  whether  pleasure  or 
melancholy  predominated;  for  I  was  reminded  of  those  days 


'I      ; ! 


I"? 


tit 


Jf 


i  :;  I 


•*i'-,: 


ill 


f 


h 


'\  I 


148 


TttE  SKETCn-tiOOK, 


when,  like  them,  I  had  lU'ither  known  care  nor  sorrow,  and  a 
holuhiy  was  the  summit  of  earthly  felicity.  We  stopped  a  few 
moments  afterwards,  to  water  the  horses  ;  and  on  resuminjr  our 
route,  a  turn  of  the  road  brought  us  in  sight  of  a  neat  country. 
seat.  I  could  just  distinguish  the  forms  of  a  lady  and  two 
young  girls  in  the  portico,  and  I  saw  my  little  comrades,  with 
Bantam,  Carlo,  and  old  John,  trooping  along  the  carriage  road. 
I  leaned  out  of  the  coach-window,  in  hopes  of  witnessing  the 
happy  meeting,  but  a  grove  of  trees  shut  it  from  my  sight. 

In  the  evening  we  reached  a  village  where  1  had  determined 
to  pass  the  nigiit.  As  we  drove  into  the  great  gateway  of  the 
Inu,  I  saw,  on  one  side,  the  light  of  a  rousing  kitchen  fire 
beaming  through  a  window.  1  entered,  and  admired,  for  the 
hundredth  time,  that  picLire  of  convenience,  neatness,  and 
broad  honest  enjoyment,  the  kitchen  of  an  English  inn.  It 
was  of  spacious  dimensions,  hung  round  with  copper  and  tin 
vessels  highly  polished,  and  decorated  here  and  there  with  a 
Christmas  green.  Hams,  tongues,  and  tlitches  of  bacon  wore 
suspended  from  the  ceiling ;  a  smoke-jack  made  its  ceaseless 
clanking  beside  the  fire-place,  and  a  clock  ticked  in  one  corner 

A  well-scoured  deal  table  extended  along  one  side  of  the  kit« 
chen,  with  a  cold  round  of  beef,  and  other  hearty  viands,  upon 
it,  over  which  two  foaming  tankards  of  ale  seemed  mounting 
guard.  Travellers  of  inferior  order  were  preparing  to  attack 
this  stout  repast,  whilst  others  sat  smoking  and  gossiping  over 
their  ale  on  two  high -backed  oaken  settles  beside  the  lire. 
Trim  housemaids  were  hurrying  backwards  and  forwards, 
under  the  directions  of  a  fresh  bustling  landlady ;  but  still 
seizing  an  occasional  moment  to  exchange  a  flippant  word,  and 
have  a  rallying  laugh,  with  the  group  round  the  fire.  The 
scene  completely  realized  Poor  Robin's  humble  idea  of  the 
comforts  of  mid-winter : 

Now  trees  their  leafy  hatB  do  bare 
To  reverence  Winter's  silver  liair; 
. ' '  A  liaiidHoine  bualeaB,  merry  boat, 

A  pot  of  ule  now  and  a  toaat, 
Tobacco  and  a  good  coal  Are,  • 

Are  things  this  season  doth  require.* 

I  had  not  been  long  at  the  inn,  when  a  post-chaise  drove  up 
to  the  door.     A  young  gentleman  stepped  out,  and  by  the  light 
of   the  lamps   I   caught  a  glimpse  of  a  countenance   which  1 
I  moved  forward  to  get  a  nearer  view,  when 


thought  1  knew 


I'oor  KoblB's  Alnunacli,  \6M. 


< 


)<:---riM- 


:i  few 

•J,'  our 
iiitry. 
1  two 
I  with 
road, 
the 


\\ 


THE    INN     KITCHEN. 


% 


i 


■ 


^i',' 
y  /  ' 


m 


his  eye  caugl 

bridge,  a  spi 
liad  once   tri 
ticniely  cordi 
always  bring 
odd  f dventu! 
transient  int< 
I  was  not  p 
observation, 
his  father's 
holidays,  am 
than  eating 
"  and  I  can 
the  old-fash 
must  confess 
and  social  e 
my  lonelincs 
the  chaise  dr 
on  my  way  t 


It  was  a 

chaise  whirl 
smacked  his 
were  on  a  gi 
companion, 
of  the  merr 
father,  you 
and  prides  1 
hospitality, 
meet  with  U' 
jivutleman  ; 
n\  town,  am 


>r  .; 


.  *'■•»  W^  ,y     ^♦■'^  #;-»  %i»  J 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


149 


his  eye  caught  mine.  I  was  not  mistaken  ;  it  was  Frank  Brace- 
bridge,  a  sprightly  good-humored  young  fellow,  with  whom  I 
had  once  travelled  on  the  continent.  Our  meeting  was  ex- 
tremely cordial,  for  the  countenance  of  an  old  fellow-traveller 
always  brings  up  the  recollection  of  a  thousand  pleasant  scenes, 
odd  adventures,  and  excellent  jokes.  To  discuss  all  these  in  a 
transient  interview  at  an  inn,  was  impossible;  and  liuding  that 
I  was  not  pressed  for  time,  and  was  merely  making  a  tour  of 
observation,  he  insisted  that  1  should  give  him  a  day  or  two  at 
his  father's  country-seat,  to  which  he  was  going  to  [)ass  the 
holidays,  and  which  lay  at  a  few  miles'  distance.  "  It  is  better 
than  eating  a  solitary  Christmas  dinner  at  an  inn,"  said  he, 
"and  I  can  assure  you  of  a  hearty  welcome,  in  something  of 
the  old-fashioned  style."  His  reasoning  was  cogent,  and  I 
must  confess  the  preparation  I  had  seen  for  universal  festivity 
and  social  enjoyment,  had  made  me  feel  a  little  impatient  of 
my  loneliness.  I  closed,  therefore,  at  once,  with  his  invitation  ; 
the  chaise  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  in  a  few  moments  I  was 
on  my  way  to  the  family  mansion  of  the  Bracebridges. 


I      ! 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


Saint  Francis  and  Saint  Bencdight 
Blesec  this  hounc  from  wicked  wight; 
From  the  night-marc  and  the  goblin, 
That  is  hight  good  fellow  Kobin; 
Keep  it  from  all  evil  spiritR, 
Fairio,  wcezclM,  rats,  and  ferrets: 

Fi  om  curfew-tirae 

To  the  next  prime.  — Cartwrioht. 

It  was  a  -jriliiant  moonlight  night,  but  extremely  cold ;  our 
chaise  whirled  rapidly  over  the  frozen  ground  ;  the  post-boy 
smacked  his  whip  incessantly,  and  a  part  of  the  time  his  horses 
were  on  a  gallop.  "'He  knows  where  he  is  going,"  said  my 
companion,  laughing,  "  and  is  eager  to  arrive  in  time  for  some 
of  the  merriment  and  good  cheer  of  the  servants'  hall.  My 
father,  you  must  know,  is  a  bigoted  devotee  of  the  old  school, 
and  prides  himself  upon  keeping  up  something  of  old  English 
hos|)itality.  He  is  a  tolerable  specimen  of  what  you  will  rarely 
meet  with  now-a-days  in  its  purity,  —  the  old  English  country 
•icntleman  ;  for  our  men  of  fortune  spend  so  much  of  their  time 
iu  town,  and  fushiou  is  carried  so  much  iulo  ihe  country,  that 


Id 


!.-!, 


Mi     1 


CV^pIEX?* 


160 


TEE  SKETCn-BOOK. 


m 


I    f 


the  strong  rich  peculiarities  of  ancient  rur.il  life  are  a'lmoiit 
polished  away.  Mv  father,  however,  from  early  years,  took 
honest  Peachan:  *  lor  his  text-book,  instead  of  Chesterfield  ;  he 
determined  in  his  own  mind,  that  there  was  no  condition  more 
truly  honorable  and  enviable  than  that  of  a  cou\itry  gentle- 
man  on  his  paternal  lands,  and,  therefore,  passes  the  whole 
of  his  time  on  his  estate.  He  is  a  strenuous  advocate  for  the 
revival  oi  the  old  rural  games  and  holiday  observances,  and  is 
deeply  read  in  the  writers,  ancient  and  modern,  who  have 
treated  on  the  subject.  Indeed,  his  favorite  range  of  reading 
is  among  the  authors  who  flourished  at  least  two  centuries 
since ;  who,  he  insists,  wrote  and  thought  more  like  true  Eng. 
lishmen  thua  any  of  their  successors.  He  even  regrets  some- 
times  that  he  had  not  been  born  a  few  centuries  earlier,  when 
England  was  itself,  and  had  its  peculiar  manners  and  customs. 
As  he  lives  at  some  distance  from  the  main  road,  in  rathei  a 
lonely  part  of  the  country,  without  any  rival  gentry  near  him, 
he  has  that  most  enviable  of  all  blessings  to  an  Englishm.an,  an 
(opportunity  of  indulging  the  bent  of  his  own  humor  w:t!'oiit 
molestation.  Being  representative  of  the  oldest  family  in  tlio 
nci.'jhborhood,  and  a  great  part  of  the  peasantry  being  his  ten- 
ants, he  is  much  looked  up  to,  and,  in  gener.al,  is  known  simplv 
by  the  appellation  of  '  The  'Squire ; '  a  title  which  has  boon 
accorded  'to  the  head  of  the  family  since  time  immemorial.  I 
think  it  best  to  give  you  these  hints  about  my  worthy  old 
father,  to  prepare  you  for  any  eccentricities  that  might  other- 
wise appear  absurd." 

We  had  passed  for  some  time  along  the  •wall  of  a  park,  and 
at  length  the  chaise  stopped  at  the  gate.  It  was  in  a  heavy 
nuigniflcent  old  style,  of  iron  bars,  fancifully  wrought  at  top 
into  flourishes  and  flowers.  The  huge  squarp  columns  th:U 
supported  the  gate  were  surmounted  by  the  t'amil}'  crest.  Clone 
adjoining  was  the  porter's  lodge,  sheltered  under  dark  fir  trees, 
and  almost  buried  in  shrubbery. 

The  post-boy  rang  a  large  porter's  bell,  which  resoundeil 
through  the  still  frosty  air,  and  was  answered  by  the  distnnt 
barking  of  dogs,  with  which  the  mansion-house  seemed  garri- 
soned. An  old  woman  immediately  ap|)eared  at  the  gate.  yVs 
the  moonlight  fell  strongly  upon  her,  I  had  a  full  view  of  a  lit- 
tle primitive  dame,  dressed  very  much  in  the  antique  taste,  with  a 
neat  kerchief  and  stomacher,  and  her  silver  hair  peeping  fri'm 
under  a  cap  of  snowy  whiteness.     She  came  courtesying  forth 


*  Paacbam'sCsuplelK  Gtutleman,  IWit. 


^U\ 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


161 


with  many  expressions  of  simple  joy  at  seeing  her  young  mas- 
ter. Her  husband,  it  seemed,  was  up  at  the  house,  keeping 
Cliristraas  eve  in  the  sei'vants'  hall ;  they  could  not  do  without 
him,  as  he  was  the  best  hand  at  a  song  and  story  in  the  house- 
hold. 

My  friend  proposed  that  we  should  alight,  and  walk  through 
the  park  to  the  Hall,  which  was  at  no  great  distance,  while  the 
chaiso  should  follow  on.  Our  road  wound  through  a  noble 
avenue  of  trees,  among  the  naked  branches  of  which  the  moon 
glittered  as  she  rolled  through  the  deep  vault  of  a  cloudless 
s<y.  The  lawn  beyond  was  sheeted  with  a  slight  covering  of 
snow,  which  here  and  there  sparkled  as  the  moonbeams  caught 
a  frosty  crystal ;  and  at  a  distance  might  be  seen  a  thin  trans- 
parent vapor,  stealing  up  from  the  low  grounds,  and  threatening 
gradually  to  shroud  the  landscape. 

My  companion  looked  round  him  with  transport:  —  "How 
often,"  said  he,  "  have  I  scampered  up  this  avenue,  on  return- 
ing home  on  school  vacations  !  How  often  have  I  play(;d  under 
these  trees  when  a  boy  !  I  feel  a  degree  of  filial  reverence  for 
them,  as  v^e  look  up  to  those  who  have  cherished  us  in  child- 
hood. My  father  was  always  scrupulous  in  exac;-.!  ig  our  holi- 
days, and  having  us  around  him  on  family  festivals.  He  used 
to  dii'cct  and  superintend  our  games  with  the  strictness  that 
Bome  parents  do  the  studies  ot  iiieu'  children.  He  was  very 
particular  that  we  should  play  the  old  English  games  according 
to  their  original  form  ;  and  consulted  old  books  for  precedent 
and  authority  for  every  '  merric  disport;'  yet,  I  assure  you, 
there  never  was  pedantry  so  delightful.  It  was  the  policy  of 
the  good  old  gentleman  to  make  his  children  feel  that  home  was 
the  hapinest  place  in  the  world,  and  I  value  tiiis  delicious  home- 
feeling  as  one  of  the  choicest  gifts  a  parent  could  bestow-" 

We  were  interrupted  by  the  climor  of  a  troop  of  dogs  of  all 
sorts  and  sizes,  "  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp  and  hound,  and  curs 
of  low  degree,"  that,  disturbed  by  the  ring  of  the  porter's  bell 
!in<l  the  rattling  of  the  chaise,  came  bounding  open-moutlje<) 
jieross  the  lawn. 

" The  little  dogs  and  all, 

Tray,  Blanche,  and  Sweetheart,  see,  they  bark  at  me!  " 

cried  Bracebridge,  laughing.     At  the  sound  of  his  voice,  the 
bark  was  changed  into  a  yelp  of  delight,  and  in  a  moment  he 
was  surrounded  and  almost  overpowered  bj'  t,he  caresses  of  the 
faithful  animals. 
We  had  now  come  in  full  view  of  the  old  family  iiiansion, 


!     I 


f 


1  ■ 


M'l 


m 

Su         ( 

1      'M  :♦ ! 

Il 

ISt 

li 

1 
1 

i   [ 

'1 

■f 

:'!   ^i< 


152 


TJT^  SKETCH-BOOK. 


partly  thrown  in  deep  shadow,  and  partly  lit  up  by  the  cold 
moonshine.  It  was  an  irreguhu  building  of  some  m;ignitiule, 
and  seemed  to  be  of  the  architecture  of  different  periods.  One 
wino-  was  evidently  very  ancient,  with  heavy  stoiie-shafted  liow 
windows  jutting  out  and  overrun  with  ivy,  from  ainoug  the 
foliage  of  which  the  small  diamond-shaped  panes  of  glass  glii- 
tered  with  the  raoon-bef.ms.  The  rest  of  the  house  was  in  Uic 
French  taste  of  Charles  che  Second's  time,  having  been  rcpaiud 
and  altered,  as  my  friend  told  me,  by  one  of  his  ancestors,  \\li,, 
returned  with  that  monarch  at  the  Restoration.  The  grounds 
about  the  house  were  laid  out  in  the  old  formal  manner  of  arti- 
ficial flower-beds,  clipped  shrubberies,  raised  terraces,  and  heavy 
stone  balustrades,  ornamented  with  urns,  a  leaden  statiili;  or 
two,  and  a  jet  of  water.  The  old  gentleman,  I  was  told,  was 
extremely  careful  to  preserve  this  obsolete  finery  in  all  its  orig- 
inal  state.  He  admired  this  fashion  in  gardening ;  it  had  au 
air  of  magnificence,  was  courtly  and  noble,  and  befitting  good 
old  family  style.  The  boasted  imitation  of  nature  in  modem 
gardening  Lad  sprung  up  with  modern  republican  notions,  but 
did  not  suit  a  monarchial  government  —  it  smacked  of  the  lev- 
elling system.  I  could  not  help  smiling  at  this  introduction  of 
politics  into  gardening,  though  I  expressed  some  apprei.riusioii 
that  I  should  find  the  old  gentleman  rather  intolerant  in  'il,, 
creed.  Frank  assured  mc,  however,  that  it  was  almost  the  only 
instance  in  which  he  had  ever  heard  his  father  meddle  with  pol- 
itics ;  and  he  believed  he  had  got  this  notion  from  a  member 
of  Parliament,  who  once  passed  a  few  weeks  with  him.  The 
'Squire  was  glad  of  any  argument  to  defend  his  clipped  yew 
trees  and  formal  terraces,  which  had  been  occasionally  attacked 
by  modern  landscape  gardeners. 

As  we  ppproached  the  house,  we  heard  the  sound  of  ni-.;sie, 
and  now  and  then  a  burst  of  laughter,  from  one  end  of  the 
building.  This,  Bracebridge  said,  nuist  proceed  from  the  ser- 
vants' hall,  where  a  great  deal  of  revelry  was  porniitted,  and 
even  encouraged,  by  the  'Squire,  througiiout  tlic  twelve  days  of 
Christmas,  provided  every  thing  was  done  comfortably  to  ,.ii- 
cient  usage.  Here  were  kept  up  the  old  games  of  hocdman 
blind,  shoe  the  wild  mare,  i<ot  cockles,  steal  the  white  loaf,  bob- 
apple,  and  snap-dragon;  the  Yule  clog,  and  Christmas  candle, 
were  regularly  burnt,  and  the  mistletoe,  with  its  white  berries, 
hung  up,  to  the  imminent  peril  of  all  the  pretty  housemaids.' 


'The  mtBUetoR  i8  gtlil  hunK  up  in  fiirrn  Iiouhoh  iind  kitchens,  iit  (^hriHtmiiB;  nnd  tha 
youne  men  have  the  privilege  of  Isisninij  tlio  girls  iiiider  ii,  |)iucliiiig  each  time  u  beri^ 
from  the  bUHh.    When  the  berries  are  mU  plucked,  the  privilege  ceaiiuii. 


■*»r»-**^^f' 


..«.-. «>„^  ^.,    .  .^     ,4    A    %  , 


.■.x»  J.     ^ 


CHRISTMAS   EVE. 


153 


So  intent  were  the  servants  upon  their  sports,  that  we  had 
to  ring  repeatedly  before  we  could  make  ourselves  heard.  On 
our  tirrivjil  being  announced,  the  'Squire  came  out  to  receive 
us,  accompanied  by  his  two  other  sons  ;  one  a  young  officer  in 
the  army,  home  on  leave  of  absence  ;  the  other  an  Oxonian, 
just  from  the  university.  The  'Squire  was  a  fine  healthy-look- 
ing old  gentleman,  with  silver  hair  curling  lightly  round  ar 
o|)('n  llorid  countenance  ;  in  which  the  physiognomist,  with  the 
advantage,  like  myself,  of  a  previous  hint  or  two,  might  dis- 
cov(>r  a  singular  mixture  of  whim  and  benevolence. 

The  family  meeting  was  warm  and  affectionate  ;  as  the  even- 
ing was  far  advanced,  the  'Squire  would  not  permit  us  to 
change  our  travelling  dresses,  but  ushered  us  at  once  to  the 
coin[)any,  which  was  assembled  in  a  large  old-fashioned  hall. 
It  was  composed  of  different  branches  of  a  numerous  family 
connection,  where  there  were  the  usual  proportion  of  old 
uncles  and  aunts,  comfortable  married  dames,  superannuated 
spinsters,  blooming  country  cousins,  half-fledged  striplings,  and 
briglit-eyed  boarding-school  hoydens.  They  were  variously 
occupied ;  some  at  a  round  game  of  cards ;  others  conversing 
ror.nd  the  fireplace  ;  ai,  one  end  of  the  hall  was  a  group  of  the 
young  folks,  some  nearly  grown  up,  others  of  a  more  tender 
and  budding  age,  fully  engrossed  by  a  merry  game  ;  and  a  pro- 
fusion of  wooden  horses,  penny  trumpets,  and  tattered  dolls 
about  the  floor,  showed  traces  of  a  troop  of  little  fairy  beings, 
who,  having  frolicked  through  a  happy  day,  had  been  carried 
off  to  slumber  through  a  peaceful  night. 

While  the  mutual  greetings  were  going  on  between  young 
Bracebridge  and  his  relatives,  I  had  time  to  scan  the  apart- 
ment. 1  have  called  it  u  hall,  for  so  it  had  certainly  been  in 
old  times,  and  the  'Squire  had  evidently  endeavored  to  restore 
it  to  something  of  its  primitive  state.  Over  the  heavy  project- 
ing liiiplace  was  suspended  a  picture  of  a  warrior  in  armor, 
slaiiding  !>y  a  white  horse,  and  on  the  opposite  wall  hung  a 
hchuet,  buckler,  and  lance.  At  one  end  an  enormous  pair  of 
antlers  were  inserted  in  the  wall,  the  branches  serving  as  hooks 
on  wiiich  to  suspend  hats,  whips,  and  spurs  ;  and  in  the  corners 
of  the  apartment  were  fowling-pieces,  fishing-rods,  and  other 
s|)orting  implements.  The  furniture  was  of  the  cumbrou3 
workmanship  of  former  days,  though  some  articles  of  modern 
convenience  had  been  added,  and  the  oaken  floor  had  been  car- 
peted ;  so  that  the  whole  presented  an  odd  mixture  of  parlor 
and  hall. 

The  grate  had   been  removed  from  the  wide  overwhelmii  g 


\  : 


- 


;  51 


154 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


I ''  I 


fire-place,  lo  make  way  for  a  fire  of  wood,  in  the  midst  of  whicu 
was  an  enormous  log,  glowing  and  blazing,  and  sending  forth 
a  vast  volume  of  light  and  heat ;  this  I  understood  was  the  yule 
clog,  which  the  'Squire  was  particular  in  having  brought  in  and 
illumined  on  a  Christmas  eve,  according  to  ancient  custom.* 

It  was  really  delightful  to  see  the  old  'Squire,  seated  in  his 
hereditary  elbow-chair,  by  the  hospitable  fireside  of  his  ances- 
tors, and  looking  around  him  like  the  sun  of  a  system,  beaming 
warmth  and  gladness  to  every  heart.  Even  the  very  dog  that 
lay  stretched  at  his  feet,  as  he  lazily  shifted  his  position  and 
yawned,  would  look  fondly  up  in  his  master's  face,  wag  his 
tail  against  the  floor,  and  stretch  himself  again  to  sleep,  con- 
fident of  kindness  and  jirotection.  There  is  an  emanation  from 
the  heart  in  geiniiue  hospitality,  which  cannot  be  described, 
but  is  immediately  felt,  and  puts  the  stranger  at  once  at  his 
ease.  I  had  not  been  seated  many  minutes  by  the  comfortable 
hearth  of  the  worthy  old  cavalier,  before  I  found  myself  as 
much  at  home  as  if  I  had  been  one  of  the  family. 

Supper  was  announced  shortly  after  our  arrival.  It  was 
served  up  in  a  spacious  oaken  chamber,  the  panels  of  which 
shone  with  wax,  and  around  which  were  several  family  por- 
traits decorated  with  holly  and  ivy.  Beside  the  accustomed 
lights,  two  great  wax  tapers,  called  Christmas  candles,  wreathed 
with  greens,  were  placed  on  a  highly  polished  beaufet  among 
the  family  plate.  The  table  was  abundantly  spread  with  sub- 
stantial fare ;  but  the  'Squire  made  his  supper  of  frumenty,  a 
dish  made  of  wheat  cakes  boiled  in  milk  with  rich  spices,  being 
a  standing  dish  in  old  times  for  Christmas  eve.  I  was  happy 
to  find  my  old  friend,  minced  pie,  in  the  retinue  of  the  feast ; 
and  finding  him  to  be  perfectly  orthodox,  and  that  I  need  not 
be  ashamed  of  my  predilection,  I  greeted   him   with   all  the 

'  The  yule  clog  is  a  great  log  of  wood,  BOinetlmes  the  root  of  a  tree,  brought  into  the 
house  with  great  ceremony,  on  CbriHtmaa  eve,  laid  in  the  fireplace,  and  lighted  with  Ihu 
brand  of  last  year's  clo^-.  While  it  laiited,  there  was  great  drinking,  Hinging,  and  telliiii; 
of  tales.  Soinetimen  it  was  accompanied  by  ChristmaM  candles;  but  in  the  cottages,  the 
ODlv  light  was  from  tlie  ruddy  blaze  of  the  great  wood  ttre.  The  yule  clog  waa  to  buru  all 
night:  if  it  went  out,  it  was  considered  a  sign  of  ill  luck. 

Herrick  mentions  it  in  one  of  his  songs : 

Come  bring  with  a  noVie, 
My  merrie,  merrie  boys, 
The  Christmas  Log  to  the  flrinf ; 

While  my  good  dame  she 

Bids  ye  all  be  free, 
And  drink  to  your  hearts  desiring. 

The  yule  clo|t  Is  still  burnt  In  many  farm-houses  and  kltchevii  In  Kngland,  p«rtle- 
nlarly  in  the  north;  and  there  are  several  superstitions  connected  with  it  among  the 
peaBniitry.  If  a  squintinti;  i)erson  como  to  the  houxe  while  it  Is  burning,  or  a  person 
barefooted,  it  is  considered  an  ill  omen.  The  brand  remaining  from  the  yule  clog  is 
carefully  put  uwuy  to  lij;bt  the  next  year's  Christiuas  tire. 


CHRISTMAS    EVE. 


165 


warmth  wherewith  we  usually  greet  an  old  and  very  genteel 
acquaintance. 

The  mirth  of  the  company  was  greatly  promoted  by  the 
humors  of  an  eccentric  personage,  whom  Mr.  Bracebrid^e  al- 
ways addressed  with  the  quaint  appellation  of  Master  Simon. 
He  was  a  tight  brisk  little  man,  with  the  air  of  an  arrant  old 
bachelor.  His  nose  was  shaped  like  the  bill  of  a  parrot,  his 
face  slightly  pitted  with  the  small-pox,  with  a  dry  perpetual 
bloom  on  it,  like  a  frost-bitten  leaf  in  autumn.  He  had  an  eye 
of  great  quickness  and  vivacity,  with  a  drollery  and  lurking 
waggery  of  expression  that  was  irrei;  "tible.  He  was  evidently 
the  wit  of  the  family,  dealing  very  n^oh  in  sly  jokes  and  innu- 
endoes with  the  ladies,  and  making  infinite  merriment  by  harp- 
ing upon^"old  themes ;  whicii,  unfortunately,  my  ignorance  of 
the  family  chronicles  did  not  permit  me  to  enjoy.  It  seemed 
to  be  his  great  delight,  during  supper,  to  keep  a  young  girl  next 
to  him  in  a  continual  agony  of  stifled  laughter,  in  spite  of  her 
awe  of  the  reproving  looks  of  her  mother,  who  sat  opposite. 
Indeed,  he  was  the  idol  of  the  younger  part  of  the  company, 
who  laughed  at  every  thing  he  said  or  did,  and  at  every  turn 
of  his  countenance.  I  could  not  wonder  at  it ;  for  he  must  have 
been  a  miracle  of  accomplishments  in  their  eyes.  He  could 
imitate  Punch  and  Judy ;  make  an  old  woman  of  his  hand, 
witli  the  assistance  of  a  burnt  cork  and  pocket  handkerchief ; 
and  cut  an  orange  into  such  a  ludicrous  caricature,  that  the 
young  folks  were  ready  to  die  with  laughing. 

I  was  let  briefly''  into  his  history  by  Frank  Bracebridge.  He 
was  an  old  bachelor,  of  a  small  independent  income,  which,  by 
careful  management,  was  sufficient  for  all  his  wants.  He  re- 
volved through  the  family  system  like  a  vagrant  comet  in  its 
orbit ;  sometimes  visiting  one  branch,  and  sometimes  another 
quite  remote,  as  is  often  the  case  with  gentlemen  of  extensive 
connections  and  small  fortunes  in  England.  He  had  a  chirping, 
buoyant  disposition,  always  enjoying  the  present  moment ;  and 
his  freqiient  change  of  scene  and  company  prevented  his  ac- 
quiring those  rusty,  unaccommodating  habits,  with  which  old 
bachelors  are  so^uncharitably  charged.  He  was  a  complete 
family  chronicle,  being  versed  in  the  genealogy,  history,  and 
inteimarriages  of  the  whole  house  of  Bracebridge,  which  made 
him  a  great  favorite  with  the  old  folks  ;  he  was  a  beau  of  all 
the  elder  ladies  and  superannuated  spinsters,  among  whom  he 
was  liabitually  considered  rather  a  young  fellow,  and  he  was 
master  of  the  revels  among  the  children ;  so  that  there  was  not 
a  more  popular  being  iu  the  sphere  in  which  he  moved;  than 


1  ^ 


i(ij'ii 


:i  i 


if) 


156 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


V: 


■pi     f  I. 


vr 


Mr.  Simon  Bracebridge.  Of  late  years,  lie  had  resided  almost 
entirely  with  the  'Squire,  to  whom  he  had  become  a  factotum, 
and  whom  he  particularly  delighted  by  jumping  with  his  hu- 
mor in  respect  to  old  times,  and  by  having  a  scrap  of  an  old 
song  to  suit  every  occasion.  We  had  presently  a  speciuien  of 
his  last-mentioned  talent ;  for  no  sooner  was  supper  removed, 
and  spiced  wines  and  other  beverages  peculiar  to  the  season 
introduced,  than  Master  Simon  was  called  on  for  a  good  old 
Christmas  song.  He  bethought  himself  for  a  moment,  and 
then,  with  a  sparkle  of  the  eye,  and  a  voice  that  was  by  no 
means  bad,  excepting  that  it  ran  occasionally  into  a  falsetto, 
like  the  notes  of  a  split  reed,  he  quavered  forth  a  quaint  old 
ditty : 

Kow  ChrlRtraas  is  come, 

Let  U8  beiit  up  the  drum, 
And  call  all  our  neighbors  together; 

And  when  they  appear, 

Let  U8  make  tlii'tn  mieh  clieer, 
Ab  wilt  keep  out  the  wind  and  the  weather,  etc 

The  supper  had  disposed  every  one  to  gayety,  and  an  old 
harper  was  summoned  from  the  servants'  hall,  where  he  had 
been  strumming  all  the  evening,  and  to  all  appearance  comfort- 
ing himself  with  some  of  the  'Squire's  home-brewed.  He  was 
a  kind  of  hanger-on,  I  was  told,  of  the  establishment,  and 
though  ostensibly  a  resident  of  the  village,  was  oftener  to  be 
found  in  the  'Squires  kitchen  than  his  own  home ;  the  old  gen- 
tleman being  fond  of  the  sound  of  "  Harp  in  hall." 

The  dance,  like  most  dances  after  supper,  was  a  merry  one ; 
some  of  the  older  folks  joined  in  it,  and  the  'Squire  himself 
figured  down  several  couple  with  a  partner  with  whom  he 
adirmed  he  had  danced  at  every  Christmas  for  nearly  half  a 
century.  Master  Simon,  who  seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  connect- 
ing link  between  the  old  times  and  the  new,  and  to  be  withal  a 
little  antiquated  in  the  taste  of  his  accomplishments,  evidently 
piqued  himself  on  his  dancing,  and  was  endeavoring  to  gain 
credit  by  the  heel  and  toe,  rigadoon,  and  other  graces  of  the 
ancient  school ;  but  he  had  unluckily  assorted  himself  with  a 
little  romping  girl  from  boarding-school,  who,  by  her  wild 
vivacity,  kept  him  continually  on  the  stretch,  and  defeated  all 
his  sober  attempts  at  elegance :  —  such  are  the  ill-assortetl 
matches  to  which  antique  gentlemen  are  unfortunately  prone ! 

The  young  Oxonian,  on  the  contrary,  had  led  out  one  of  his 
maiden  aunts,  on  whom  tht  .ogue  played  a  thousand  little 
knaveries  with  impunity  ;  he  was  full  of  practical  jokes,  and  hie 


delight  was  t( 
youngsters,  h 
niost  interest 
a  ward  of  th( 
From  several 
the  evening, 
between  then 
to  captivate  : 
some ;  and,  1 
picked  up  va 
could  talk  F 
tolerably  —  d 
at  Waterloo : 
romance,  con 
The  mome 
lolling  aTaim 
am  half  incli 
air    of   the 
against  havin 
upon  which  t 
as  if  in  an 
with  a  chariij 
to  Julia:  " 


The  song 
meut  to  the 


CHRISTMAS   EVE. 


151 


deliglit  was  to  teasn  his  aunts  and  cousins ;  yet,  like  all  madcap 
youngsters,  he  was  a  universal  favorite  among  the  women.  Tiie 
most  interesting  couple  in  the  dance  was  the  young  o'ficer,  and 
a  ward  of  the  'Squire's,  a  beautiful  blushing  girl  of  seventeen. 
From  several  shy  glances  which  I  had  noticed  in  the  course  of 
the  evening,  I  suspected  there  was  a  little  kindness  growing  up 
between  them ;  and,  indeed,  the  young  soldier  was  just  the  hero 
to  captivate  a  romantic  girl.  He  was  tall,  slender,  and  hand- 
some ;  and,  like  most  young  British  oflicers  of  late  years,  had 
picked  uj)  various  small  accomplishments  on  the  continent  —  he 
could  talk  French  and  Italian  —  draw  landscapes  —  sing  very 
tolerably  —  dance  divinely  ;  but,  above  all,  he  had  been  wounded 
at  Waterloo  :  —  what  girl  of  seventeen,  well  read  in  poetry  and 
romance,  could  resist  such  a  mirror  of  chivalry  and  perfection? 
The  moment  the  dance  was  over,  lie  caught  up  a  guitar,  and 
lolling  a'^ainst  the  old  marble  fireplace,  in  an  attitude  which  I 
am  half  inclined  to  suspect  was  studied,  began  the  little  French 
air  of  the  Troubadour.  The  'Squire,  however,  exclaimed 
against  having  any  thing  on  Christmas  eve  but  good  old  English  ; 
upon  which  the  young  minstrel,  casting  up  his  eye  for  a  moment, 
as  if  in  an  efifort  of  memory,  struck  into  another  strain,  and 
with  a  charm  ng  air  of  gallantry,  gave  Herrick's  "  Night- Piece 
to  Julia:  " 

Iler  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  the«i, 
The  Bhooliiig  stars  attend  thee, 

And  the  elves  also, 

Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  tire,  befriend  thee.  ' 

No  W'illo'-the-Wisp  mlsllghtthee; 
Nor  snitke  nor  slow-wonu  bite  thee; 

But  on,  on  thy  way, 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there  is  none  to  affright  thee.  ; 

Tht'ii  let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber; 
What  though  the  moon  does  slumber,  > 

I  The  stars  of  the  night 

Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 

Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee. 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me: 

And  when  I  4hall  mc'Jt 

Thy  silvery  Tjet, 
My  soul  I'll  pour  into  thee. 


I  ! 


:i'\ 


\  . 


I  ^ 


M 


.> 


The  song  might  oi-  might  not  have  been  intended  in  compli- 
meut  to  the  fair  Julia,  for  so  I  found  his  partner  was  called ; 


>-i:    h  ,1 


158 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


Bhe,  however,  was  certainly  unconscious  of  any  aa^V  applica- 
tion  ;  for  she  never  loolted  at  the  singer,  but  kept  her  eyes  cast 
upon  the  floor ;  lier  face  was  sulTiised,  it  is  true,  with  a  beauti- 
ful blush,  and  there  was  a  gentle  heaving  of  the  bosom,  but  all 
that  was  doubtless  caused  by  the  exercise  of  the  dance :  indeed, 
pr>  great  was  her  indifference,  that  she  amused  herself  with 
plucking  to  pieces  a  choice  bouquet  of  hot-house  flowers,  and 
i)y  the  time  the  song  was  concluded  the  nosegay  lay  .1  ruius  ou 
the  floor. 

The  party  now  broke  np  for  the  right,  with  the  kind  hearteil 
old  custom  of  shaking  hands.  As  I  passed  through  the  hall  on 
my  way  to  my  chamber,  the  dying  embers  of  the  yule  clog  stiil 
sent  forth  a  dusky  glow  ;  and  had  it  not  been  the  season  when 
"  no  spirit  dares  stir  abroad,"  I  should  have  been  half  tempted 
to  steal  from  my  room  at  midnight,  and  peep  whether  the  fairies 
might  not  be  ut  their  revels  about  the  hearth. 

.My  chamber  was  in  the  old  part  of  the  mansion,  the  ponder- 
ous furniture  of  which  might  have  been  fabricated  in  the  days 
of  the  giants.  The  room  was  panelled,  with  cornices  of  heavy 
carved  work,  in  which  flowers  and  grotesque  faces  were 
strangely  intermingled,  and  a  row  of  black-looking  poitraits 
stared  mournfully  at  me  from  the  walls.  The  bed  was  of  rich, 
though  faded  damask,  with  a  lofty  tester,  and  stood  in  a  niche 
opposite  a  bow-window.  I  had  scarcely  got  into  bed  when  a 
strain  of  music  seemed  to  break  forth  in  the  air  just  below  the 
window :  I  listened,  and  found  it  proceeded  from  a  band,  which 
I  concluded  to  be  the  waits  from  some  neighboring  village. 
They  went  round  the  house,  playing  uuder  the  windows.  I 
drew  aside  the  curtains,  to  hear  them  more  distinctly.  The 
luoonbeams  fell  through  the  upper  part  of  the  casement,  par- 
tially lighting  up  the  antiquated  apartment.  The  sounds,  as 
they  receded,  became  more  soft  and  aerial,  and  seemed  to  accord 
with  quiet  and  moonlight.  I  listened  and  listened  —  they  be- 
came more  and  more  tender  and  remote,  and,  as  they  gradually 
died  away,  my  head  sunk  upon  the  pillow,  and  I  fell  asleep. 


n 


.  .i    j 


CHSISTMAa  DAT, 


159 


CHRISTMAS  DAY. 

Dark  and  dull  night  flie  hence  away, 

And  give  the  honour  to  this  day 

That  Bees  December  tura'd  to  May.  . 

•  ••••• 

Why  doBR  the  chilling  winter's  mome 

Smile  like  a  fleld  beset  with  corn? 

Or  smell  like  to  a  meade  new  shorne, 

Thus  on  the  sudden?— come  and  see 

The  cause,  why  things  thus  fragrant  be.  —  HirriOS. 

When  I  woke  the  next  morning,  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  events 
of  the  preceding  evening  had  been  a  dream,  and  nothing  but 
the  identity  of  the  ancient  chamber  convinced  me  of  their 
reality.  While  I  lay  musing  on  my  pillow,  I  heard  the  sound 
of  little  feet  pattering  outside  of  the  door,  and  a  whispering 
consultation.  Presently  a  choir  of  small  voices  chanted  forth 
go  old  Christmas  carol,  the  burden  of  which  was  — 

Rejoice,  our  Saviour  he  was  born 
On  Christmas  day  In  the  morning. 

I  rose  softly,  slipt  on  my  clothes,  opened  the  door  suddenly. 
and  beheld  one  of  the  most  beautiful  little  fairy  groups  that  a 
painter  could  imagine.  It  consisted  of  a  boy  and  two  girls,  the 
eldest  not  more  than  six,  and  lovely  as  seraphs.  They  were 
going  the  rounds  of  the  house,  and  singing  at  every  chamber  door. 
but  my  sudden  appearance  frightened  them  into  mute  bashful- 
ness.  They  remained  for  a  moment  playing  on  their  lips  with 
their  fingers,  and  now  and  then  stealing  a  shy  glance  from 
under  their  eyebrows,  until,  as  if  by  one  impulse,  they  scam- 
pered away,  and  as  they  turned  an  angle  of  the  gallery.  I  beard 
them  laughing  in  triumph  at  their  escape. 

Every  thing  conspired  to  produce  kind  and  happy  feelings, 
in  this  stronghold  of  old-fashioned  hospitality.  The  window 
of  my  chamber  looked  out  upon  what  in  summer  would  have 
been  a  beautiful  landscape.  There  was  a  sloping  lawn,  a  fine 
stream  winding  at  the  foot  of  it,  and  a  tract  of  park  beyond, 
with  noble  clumps  of  trees,  and  herds  of  deer.  At  a  distance 
Was  a  neat  hamlet,  with  the  smoke  from  the  cottage  chimneys 
hanging  over  it ;  and  a  church,  with  its  dark  spire  in  strong 
relief  against  the  clear  cold  sky.  The  house  was  surrounded 
with  evergreens,  according  to  the  English  custom,  which  would 


i;P! 


160 


THE  SKETCB-nOOK. 


'■'■\ 


';    tf 


have  given  almost  an  appearance  of  summer ;  but  the  morniug 
was  extionu'ly  frosty  ;  the  light  vapor  of  the  preceding  cvoiiin<r 
had  been  pr('cli)itati^d  l)y  the  cold,  and  covered  all  the  trees  ainl 
evt!ry  l)lade  of  grass  with  its  line  crystallizations.  The  rays  of 
a  bright  morning  sun  had  a  dazzling  effect  among  the  glitlcring 
foliage.  A  robin  i)erched  upon  the  top  of  a  mountain  ash,  that 
hung  its  clusters  of  red  berries  just  before  my  window,  wus 
basking  iiimself  in  the  sunshine,  and  piping  a  few  querulous 
notes  ;  and  a  peacock  was  displaying  all  the  glorii's  of  iiis  traiu, 
and  strutting  with  the  pride  and  gravity  of  a  Spanish  grandee 
on  the  terrace-walk  below. 

1  had  scarcely  dressed  myself,  when  a  servant  appeared  to 
invite  me  to  family  prayers.  He  showed  me  the  wny  to  a  siniil! 
chapel  in  the  old  wing  of  the  house,  where  I  found  the  priiici- 
pal  part  of  the  family  already  assembled  in  a  kind  of  gaikrv, 
furnished  with  cushions,  hassocks,  and  huge  prayer-books;  ,hc 
servants  were  seated  on  benches  below.  The  ohl  gentleman 
read  prayers  from  a  desk  in  front  of  the  gallery,  and  M.istet 
Simon  acted  as  clerk  and  made  the  responses  ;  and  I  must  do 
him  the  justice  to  say,  that  he  acquitted  himself  vith  great 
gravity  and  decorum. 

The  service  was  followed  by  a  Christmas  carol,  v.hicii  Mr. 
Bracebridge  himself  had  constructed  from  a  poem  of  his  favor- 
ite author  Hen'ick;  and  it  had  been  adapted  to  an  old  cluirch 
melody  by  Master  Simon.  As  there  weie  severtd  good  voices 
among  the  household,  the  effect  was  extremely  pleasing;  but  I  wns 
particularly  gratified  by  the  exaltation  of  heart,  and  sudden 
sally  of  grateful  feeling,  with  which  the  worthy  'Scpiire  delivered 
one  stanza;  his  eye  glistening,  and  his  voice  rambling  out  of 
all  the  bounds  of  time  and  tune  : 

"  Tls  thuu  that  crown'st  ray  glittering  hearth 
■    ■  With  guilUeasc  mirth, 

Ami  giveot  mc  M'aBHaile  bowles  to  driulc 
I ,  ,   ,  Spiced  to  the  brinlv : 

Lord, 'tJB  thy  plenty-dropping  hand 
•    '  Tliut  KoilcD  my  land  : 

r;'  And  giv'Ht  mu  for  my  bUHhell  Howne, 

i  ._  Twiee  leu  for  one." 

I  afterwards  understood  that  early  morning  service  was  read 
on  every  Sunday  and  saint's  day  throughout  the  year,  either  by 
Mr.  Bracebridge  or  by  some  member  of  the  family.  It  was  once 
almost  universally  the  case  at  the  seats  of  the  nobility  and  geu 


trv  rf  Kngh 
is' falling  iiit 
of  the  order 
the  occasion 
nioniitiil  P;''^' 
day,  :uid  alt 
Our  break 
old  Knglish 
over  1111  )den 
among  the  ( 
the  tlecline 
them  to  his 
a  brave  dis 
After  bn 
r.raeeltritlgt 
hv  everyboc 
of  gentlenv 
lisliinent ;  f 
—  the  last  I 
time  out  o 
which  hnnp 
their  ganil)' 
hwitcii  he  c 
The  old 
sunsliine  tli 
force  of  tl 
moulded  b 
an  air  of  p 
There  a] 
the  place, 
a  Hock  of 
was  gentb 
told  me  th 
tisc  on  hi 
same  way 
a  flight  of 
of  wrens, 
He  went  < 
herbert,  v 
and  glory 
ehiefly  ag 
the  beaul 
falleth,  h 
again  as 


'hi 


CHRISTMAS  DAT. 


161 


>rnmg 

C'llilKr 

'«  and 
3s  of 
Ifririir 
I,  lliat 
was 
"iiloiis 
train, 
aiuiee 

«1  to 
Miall 
iiici- 
I'lciT, 
i :  .lie 
cinaii 
astot 
■*t  do 


trv  cf  KneilaiKl,  and  it  is  much  to  be  rogrotted  that  the  custom 
is  falling  into  iicgU'ct;  for  the  (hiUest  observer  niust  be  sensible 
of  the  ohUt  and  serenity  prevahMit  in  those  househoUls,  where 
the  oceaHional  exercise  of  a  ix-autil'iil  form  of  worsiiip  in  the 
nioniing  gives,  as  it  were,  tlu;  I<ey-note  to  every  temper  for  the 
(lay,  !ind  attunes  every  spirit  to  liannony. 

Otir  lirealvfast  consisted  of  wliat  tlic  'Squire  denominated  true 
old  Knglish  fare.  lie  iniUdged  in  some  bitter  lamentations 
over  modern  breakfasts  of  tea  and  toast,  which  lie  censured  as 
among  the  causes  of  inodern  elTeininaey  and  weak  nerves,  and 
the  ilci^liiie  of  old  Knglish  lii'ai  tiness :  and  though  he  admitted 
tlu'iii  to  his  table  t(j  suit  the  palates  of  his  guests,  yet  there  was 
a  brave  display  of  cohl  meats,  wine,  and  ale,  on  the  sideboard. 
AfliT  I)reakfast,  I  walked  about  the  grounds  with  Frank 
Hraceliriilge  and  Master  Simon,  or  Mr.  Simon,  as  he  was  called 
by  everybody  but  tiie  'Squire.  We  were  escorted  by  a  number 
of  gentlemen-like  dogs,  that  s(  ^Mned  loungers  about  the  estab- 
lisiiinent ;  from  the  frisking  spaniel  to  the  steady  old  stag-hound 
—  the  last  of  which  was  of  a  race  that  li.ad  been  in  the  family 
time  out  of  mind  —  they  were  all  obedient  to  a  dog-whistle 
which  hung  to  Master  Simon's  button-hole,  and  in  the  midst  of 
their  gambols  would  glance  an  eye  occasionally  upon  a  small 
switch  he  carried  in  his  hand. 

'I'iie  old  mansion  had  a  still  more  venerable  look  in  the  yellow 
sunsliinc  than  by  pale  moonlight;  and  I  could  not  but  feel  the 
force  of  the  'Scpiire's  idea,  that  the  formal  terraces,  heavily 
moulded  balustrades,  and  clipped  yew  trees,  carried  with  them 
an  air  of  proud  aristocracy- 
There  appeared  to  be  an  unusual  number  of  peacocks  about 
the  place,  and  I  was  making  some  remarks  upon  what  I  termed 
a  Hock  of  them  that  were  basking  under  a  sunny  wall,  when  I 
was  gently  corrected  in  my  phraseology  by  Master  Simon,  who 
told  me  that  according  to  the  most  ancient  and  approved  trea- 
tise on  hunting,  I  must  say  a  muster  of  peacocks.  "  In  the 
same  way,"  added  he,  with  a  slight  air  of  pedantry,  "we  say 
a  flight  of  doves  or  swallows,  a  bevy  of  quails,  a  herd  of  deer, 
of  wrens,  or  cranes,  a  skulk  of  foxes,  or  a  building  of  rooks." 
He  went  on  to  inform  me  that,  according  to  Sir  Anthony  Fitz- 
Iierbert,  we  ought  to  ascribe  to  this  bird  "both  understanding 
■uul  glory ;  for,  being  i)raised,  he  will  jiresently  set  up  his  tail, 
I'hielly  against  the  sun,  lO  the  intent  you  may  the  better  behold 
the  ])eauty  thereof.  Hut  at  the  fall  of  the  leaf,  when  his  tail 
fuUeth,  he  will  mouru  and  hide  himself  in  corners,  till  his  tail  come 
again  as  it  was." 


I    I 


vty 


162 


TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


I  conld  not  help  smiling  at  this  display  of  small  erudition  on 
80  whimsical  a  subject;  but  I  found  that  the  peacocks  were 
birds  of  some  consequence  at  the  Hall ;  for  Frank  Bracebridge 
informed  me  that  they  were  great  favorites  with  his  father,  who 
was  extremely  carefuf  to  keep  up  the  breed,  partly  because  they 
belonged  to  chivalry,  and  were  in  great  request  at  the  stately 
banquets  of  the  olden  time ;  and  partly  because  they  hud  a 
pomp  and  magnificence  about  them  highly  becoming  an  old 
family  mansion.  Nothing,  he  was  accustomed  to  say,  had  an 
air  of  greater  state  and  dignity,  than  a  peacock  perched  upon 
an  antique  stone  balustrade. 

Master  Simon  had  now  to  hurry  off,  having  an  appointment 
at  the  parish  church  with  the  village  choristers,  who  were  to 
perform  some  music  of  his  selection.  There  was  something 
extremely  agreeable  in  the  cheerful  flow  of  animal  spirits  of  the 
little  man  ;  and  1  confess  I  had  been  somewhat  surprised  at  his 
apt  quotations  from  authors  who  certainly  were  not  in  the  range 
of  e very-day  reading.  I  mentioned  this  last  circumstance  to 
Frank  Bracebridge,  who  told  me  with  a  smile  that  Master 
Simon's  whole  stock  of  erudition  was  confined  to  some  half-a- 
dozen  old  authors,  which  the  'Squire  had  put  into  his  hands, 
and  which  he  read  over  and  over,  whenever  he  had  a  studious 
fit ;  as  he  sometimes  had  on  a  rainy  day,  or  a  long  winter  even- 
ing. Sir  Anthony  Fitzherbert's  Book  of  Husbandry ;  Mark- 
ham's  Country  Contentments  ;  the  Tretyse  of  Hunting,  by  Sir 
Thomas  Cockayne,  Knight;  Izaak  Walton's  Angler,  and  two 
or  three  more  such  ancient  worthies  of  the  pen,  were  his  stand- 
ard authorities ;  and,  like  all  men  who  know  but  a  few  books, 
he  looked  up  to  them  with  a  kind  of  idolatry,  and  quoted  them 
on  all  occasions.  As  to  his  songs,  they  were  chieflj'  picked  out 
of  old  books  in  the  'Squire's  library,  and  adai)ted  to  tunes  that 
were  popular  among  the  choice  si)irits  of  the  last  century.  His 
practical  application  of  scraps  of  literature,  however,  had  caused 
him  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  prodigy  of  book-knowledge  by  aU 
k<"oe  grooms,  huntsmen,  and  small  sportsmen  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. 

While  we  were  talking,  we  heard  the  distant  toll  of  the  village 
bell,  and  I  was  told  that  the  'Squire  was  a  little  particular  in 
having  his  household  at  church  on  a  Christmas  morning ;  con- 
sidering it  a  day  of  pouring  out  of  thanks  and  rejoicing ;  for, 
as  old  Tusser  observed,  — 

"  At  ChiiBtiDBR  be  raerry,  and  thankful  uHthal, 
And  (eMt  ttay  poor  neigbbori,  the  gre»t  with  the  aomU." 


I       ' 


! 


tion  on 

*s  Were 

•ebridge 

'er,  who 

ise  they 

stately 

liad  a 

an  old 

lad  an 

uix)n 


CHRISTMAS  DAT. 


163 


(( 


If  you  are  disposed  to  go  to  church,"  said  Frank  Brace- 
bridge,  "  I  can  promise  you  a  specimen  of  my  cousin  Simon's 
musical  achievements.  As  the  church  is  destitute  of  an  organ, 
has  formed  a  band  from  the  village  amateurs,  and  estab- 
lished a  musical  club  for  their  improvement ;  he  has  also  sorted 
a  choir,  as  he  sorted  my  father's  pack  of  hounds,  according  to 
the  directions  of  Jervaise  Markham,  in  his  Country  Content- 
ments ;  for  the  bass  he  has  sought  out  all  the  '  deep,  solemn 
mouths,'  and  for  the  tenor  the  '  loud  ringing  mouths,'  among 
the  country  bumpkins ;  and  for  '  sweet  mouths,'  he  has  culled 
with  curious  taste  among  the  prettiest  lasses  in  the  neighbor- 
hood ;  though  these  last,  he  affirms,  are  the  most  difficult  to 
keep  in  tune ;  your  pretty  female  singer  being  exceedingly 
wayward  and  capricious,  and  very  liable  to  accident." 

As  the  morning,  though  frosty,  was  remarkably  fine  and 
clear,  the  most  of  the  family  walked  to  the  church,  which  was  a 
very  old  building  of  gray  stone,  and  stood  near  a  village,  about 
half  a  mile  from  the  park  gate.  Adjoining  it  was  a  low  snug 
parsonage,  which  seemed  coeval  with  the  church.  The  front 
of  it  was  perfectly  matted  with  a  yew  tree,  that  had  been  trained 
against  its  walls,  through  the  dense  foliage  of  which,  apertures 
had  been  formed  to  admit  light  into  the  small  antique  lattices. 
As  we  passed  this  sheltered  nest,  the  parson  issued  forth  and 
preceded  us. 

I  had  expected  to  see  a  sleek  well-conditioned  pastor,  such 
as  is  often  found  in  a  snug  living  in  the  vicinity  of  a  rich  pa- 
tron's table,  but  I  was  disappointed.  The  parson  was  a  little, 
meagre,  black-looking  man,  with  a  grizzled  wig  that  was  too 
wide,  and  stood  off  from  each  ear  ;  so  that  his  head  seemed  to 
have  shrunk  away  within  it,  like  a  dried  filbert  in  its  shell.  He 
wore  a  rusty  coat,  with  great  skirts,  and  pockets  that  would 
have  held  the  church  Bible  and  prayer-book  :  and  his  small  legs 
seemed  still  smaller,  from  being  planted  in  large  shoes,  deco- 
rated with  enormous  buckles. 

I  was  informed  by  Frank  Bracebridge  that  the  parson  had 
been  a  chum  of  his  father's  at  Oxford,  and  had  received  this 
living  shortly  after  the  latter  had  come  to  his  estate.  He  was 
a  complete  black-letter  hunter,  and  would  scarcely  read  a  work 
printed  in  the  Roman  character.  The  editions  of  Caxton  and 
VVyiikiii  de  Worde  were  his  delight ;  and  he  was  indefatigable 
In  his  researches  after  such  old  English  writers  as  have  fallen 
into  oblivion  from  their  worthlessness.  In  deference,  perhaps, 
to  the  notions  of  Mr.  Hracebridge,  he  had  made  diligent  inves- 
tigations into  the  festive  rites  aad  holiday  customs  of  former 


.   ' 


/     4  t 


mmimmm 


1i! 


I    ! 


164 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


i 


m 


times  ;  and  had  been  as  zealous  in  the  inquiry,  as  if  he  had  been 
a  boon  companion  ;  but  it  was  merely  with  that  plodding  spirit 
with  which  men  of  adust  temperament  follow  up  any  track  of 
study,  merely  booausc  it  is  denominated  learning ;  indifferent 
to  it's  intrinsic  nature,  whether  it  be  the  illustration  of  the  wis- 
dom, or  of  the  ribaldry  and  obscenity  of  antiquity.  He  had 
pored  over  these  old  volumes  so  intensely,  that  they  seemed  to 
have  been  reflected  in  his  countenance;  which,  if  the  face  he 
iudefid  an  index  of  the  mind,  might  be  compared  to  a  title-page 
of  black-Iettor,  , 

On  reachiuii  the  church-porch,  we  found  the  i)arson  rebiikinir 
the  gray-headed  sexton  for  having  used  mistletoe  among  the 
greens  with  which  the  church  was  decorated.  It  was,  ho  ob- 
served, an  unholy  plant,  profaned  by  having  been  used  by  the 
Druids  in  their  mystic  ceremonies  ;  and  though  it  might  be  in- 
nocently employed  in  the  festive  ornamenting  of  halls  and 
kitchens,  yet  it  had  been  deemed  by  the  Fathers  of  the  Church 
as  unhallowed,  and  totally  unfit  for  sacred  purposes.  So  tena- 
cious was  he  on  this  point,  that  the  poor  sexton  was  obliged  to 
strip  down  a  great  part  of  the  humble  trophies  of  his  taste, 
before  the  parson  would  consent  to  enter  upon  the  service  of  the 
day. 

The  interior  of  the  church  was  venerable,  but  simple  ;  on  the 
walls  were  several  mural  monuments  of  the  Bracebridges,  and 
just  beside  the  altar,  was  a  tomb  of  ancient  workmanship,  on 
which  lay  the  effigy  of  a  warrior  in  armor,  with  his  logs 
crossed,  a  sign  of  his  having  been  a  crusader.  I  was  told  it 
was  one  of  the  family  who  had  signalized  himself  in  the  Holy 
Land,  and  the  same  whose  picture  hung  over  the  fireplace  in 
the  hall. 

During  service.  Master  Simon  stood  up  in  the  pew,  an(i  re- 
peated the  responses  very  audibly  ;  evincing  that  kind  of  cere- 
monious devotion  punctually  observed  by  a  gentleman  of  the 
old  school,  aud  a  man  of  old  family  connections.  I  observed, 
too,  that  he  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a  folio  prayer-book  with 
something  of  a  flourish,  possibly  to  show  off  an  enormous  soal- 
ring  which  enriched  one  of  his  fingers,  and  which  had  the  look 
of  a  family  relic.  But  he  was  evidently  most  solicitous  about 
the  musical  part  of  the  service,  keeping  his  eye  fixed  intently 
on  the  choir,  and  beating  time  with  much  gesticulation  and 
emphasis. 

The  orchestra  was  in  a  small  gallery,  and  presented  a  most 
whimsical  groupuig  of  heads,  piled  one  above  the  other,  among 
which  I  particularly  noticed  that  of  the  village  tailor,  a  pale 


■f    I 


had  been 
i"g  spirit 

track  of 
Klifferent 

tlie  wis- 

He  Imd 
ecnied  to 
0  fuce  1,0 
tille-paire 


a  pale 


THE    VILLAGE    CHOIR. 


rm 


■J   £! 


;i  '^•■ 


winmimw—'^-^ 


fellow  with  a 
clarionet,  and 
there  was  an 
at  a  bass  viol, 
head,  like  the 
faces  among 
frosty  mornir 
choristers  ha( 
more  for  tone 
same  book,  1 
unlike  those 
tombstones. 

The  usual 
the  vocal  pai 
tal,  and  som( 
time  by  travi 
clearing  mon 
death.     But 
pared  and  a 
founded  grea 
the  very  outs 
was  in  a  fo 
until  they  cj 
one  accord," 
all  became  d; 
got  to  the  en 
ing  one  old 
and  pinchint 
little  apart, 
a  quavering 
winding  all  \ 

The  parso 
ceremonies  c 
merely  as  a 
the  oorrectn 
church,  and 
Cesarea,  8t 
cloud  more  < 
quotations, 
such  a  migh 
present  seer 
good  man  I 
having,  in  tl 
mas,  got  CO] 


CtVdlSTMAS  DAT. 


165 


fellow  with  a  retreating  forehead  and  chin,  who  played  on  the 
clarionet,  and  seemed  to  have  blown  his  face  to  a  point :  and 
there  was  another,  a  short  pursy  man,  stooping  and  laboring 
at  a  bass  viol,  so  as  to  show  nothing  but  the  top  f  a  round  bald 
head,  like  the  egg  of  an  ostrich.  There  were  two  or  three  pretty 
faces  among  the  female  singers,  to  w^hich  the  keen  air  of  a 
frosty  morning  had  given  a  bright  rosy  tint :  but  the  gentlemen 
choristers  had  evidently  been  chosen,  like  old  Cremona  fiddles, 
more  for  tone  than  looks ;  and  as  several  had  to  sing  from  the 
same  book,  there  were  clusterings  of  odd  physiognomies,  not 
unlike  those  groups  of  cherubs  we  sometimes  see  on  country 
tombstones. 

The  usual  services  of  the  choir  were  managed  tolerabl}'  well, 
the  vocal  parts  generally  lagging  a  little  behind  the  instrumen- 
tal, and  some  loitering  fiddler  now  and  then  making  up  for  lost 
time  by  travelling  over  a  passage  with  prodigious  celerity,  and 
clearing  more  bars  than  the  keenest  fox-hunter,  to  be  in  at  the 
death.  But  the  great  trial  was  an  anthem  that  had  been  pre- 
pared and  ai ranged  by  Master  Simon,  and  on  which  he  had 
founded  great  expectation.  Unluckily  there  was  a  blunder  at 
the  very  outset — the  nuisiciaus  became  flurried ;  Master  Simon 
was  in  a  fever ;  every  thing  went  on  lamely  and  irregularly, 
until  they  came  to  a  chorus  beginning,  "  Now  let  us  sing  with 
one  accord,"  which  seemed  to  be  a  signal  for  parting  company  : 
all  became  discord  and  confusion  ;  each  shifted  for  himself,  and 
got  to  the  end  as  well,  or,  rather,  as  soon  as  he  could ;  except- 
ing one  old  chorister,  in  a  pair  of  horn  spectacles,  bestriding 
and  pinching  a  long  sonorous  nose  ;  who,  happening  to  staud  a 
little  apart,  and  being  wrapped  up  in  his  own  melody,  kept  on 
a  quavering  course,  wriggling  his  head,  ogling  his  book,  and 
winding  all  up  by  a  nasal  solo  of  at  least  three  bars'  duration. 

The  parson  p^ave  us  a  most  erudite  sermon  on  the  rites  and 
ceremonies  of  Christmas,  and  the  propriety  of  observing  it,  not 
merely  as  a  day  of  thanksgiving,  but  of  rejoicing  ;  supix)rting 
the  correctness  of  his  opinions  by  the  earliest  usages  of  the 
church,  and  enforcing  them  by  the  authorities  of  Theophilus  of 
Cesarea,  St.  Cyprian,  Si.  Chrysostom,  St.  Augustine,  and  a 
cloud  more  of  Saints  and  Fathers,  from  whom  he  made  copious 
quotations.  I  was  a  little  at  a  loss  to  perceive  the  necessity  of 
such  a  mighty  array  of  forces  to  maintain  a  point  which  no  one 
present  seemed  inclined  to  dispute  ;  but  I  soon  found  that  the 
good  man  had  a  legion  of  ideal  adversaries  to  contend  with ; 
having,  in  the  course  of  his  researches  on  the  subject  of  Christ- 
mas, got  completely  embroiled  in  the  sectarian  controversies  of 


I , 


lU! 


\  i-V 


fl^  \'' 


t'^XaUfNht.l' 


mm 


wm 


166 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


Iv^'i 


n  m 


the  Revolution,  when  the  Puritans  mad-s  such  a  fierce  assault 
upon  the  ceremonies  of  the  church  aud  poor  old  Christmas  was 
driven  out  of  the  land  by  proclamation  of  Parliament.*  The 
worthy  parson  lived  but  with  times  past,  and  knew  but  little 
of  the  present. 

Shut  up  among  worm-eaten  tomes  in  the  retirement  of  his 
antiquated  little  study,  the  pages  of  old  times  were  to  him  as 
the  gazettes  of  the  day ;  wliiic  the  era  of  the  Revolutiou  was 
mere  modern  history.  He  forgot  that  nearly  two  centuries  had 
elapsed  since  the  fiery  persecution  of  poor  mince-pie  through- 
out the  laud;  when  plum  porridge  was  denounced  as  "mere 
popery,"  and  roast  beef  .is  anti-christian  ;  aud  that  Christmas 
had  been  brought  in  again  triumphantly  with  the  merry  court 
of  King  Charles  at  the  Restoration.  He  ivindlcd  into  warmth 
with  the  ardor  of  his  contest,  and  the  host  of  imaginary  foes 
with  whom  he  had  to  combat ;  he  had  a  stubborn  conflict  with 
old  Prynne  and  two  or  three  other  forgotten  champions  of  the 
Round  Heads,  on  the  subject  of  Christmas  festivity ;  aud  con- 
cluded by  urgiug  his  hearers,  in  the  most  solemn  and  affectiug 
manner,  to  stand  to  the  traditional  customs  of  their  fathers, 
and  feast  and  make  merry  ou  this  joyful  anniversary  of  the 
church. 

I  have  seldom  known  a  sermon  attended  apparently  with 
more  immediate  effects ;  for  on  leaving  the  church,  the  congre- 
gation seemed  one  aud  all  possessed  with  the  gayety  of  spirit 
so  earnestly  enjoined  by  their  pastor.  The  elder  folks  gathered 
in  knots  in  the  churchyard,  greeting  and  shaking  hands ;  and 
the  children  ran  aii>out  crying,  Ule !  Lie  1  and  repeating  some 
uncouth  rhymes,*  which  the  parson,  who  had  joined  us,  in- 
formed me  had  been  handed  down  from  days  of  yore.  The 
villagers  doffed  their  hats  to  the  'Squire  as  he  passed,  giving 
him  the  good  wishes  of  the  season  with  every  appearance  of 
heartfelt  sincerity,  and  were  invited  by  him  to  the  hall,  to  take 
something  to  keep  out  the  cold  of  the  weather ;  and  I  heard 
blessings  uttered  by  several  of  the  poor,  which  convinced  me 

1  F-'.  I  the  "Flying  Eagle,"  a  Binall  Gazette,  pubHshed  December  24th,  1652  — 
"  The  liouee  spent  much  time  this  day  about  the  ouslnesa  of  the  Navy,  for  settling 
the  affairs  at  sea,  and  before  they  rose,  were  presented  with  a  terrible  remonstrance 
against  Christmas  day,  grounded  upon  divine  Scriptures,  2  Cor.  v.  16.  1  Cor.  xv.  14, 
17;  and  in  honour  of  the  Lord's  Day,  grounded  upon  these  Scriptures,  John  xx.  1. 
UeT.  1.  10.  IValras,  c.wlll.  21.  Lev.  .\xiii.  7,  11.  Mark,  xv.  8.  Psalm-i,  Ixxxlv.  10;  h 
which  Christmas  U  called  Anti  chrlst'rt  masse,  and  those  Masse-mongers  and  Papists 
who  observe  it,  etc.  In  cousequeiice  of  which  I'urllarnunt  spent  some  time  in  consul 
tation  about  llie  abolition  of  ('hrinlm:is  day,  passed  ordiM's  to  that  effect,  anc*  re- 
solved to  nit  uu  the  following  day  wiiich  was  commoniy  called  OhrUliBaa  day." 
»  "Ulel   Ule! 

Three  puddings  in  a  pule; 

Vritak  un\M  and  ury  uln  1 "  < 


ihtt,  in  the 
had  not  forg 
On  our  w 
generous   an 
ground  whic 
of  rustic  me 
paused  for  i 
inexpressibl 
sufficient  to 
ness  of  the 
quired  suftic 
from  every  i 
which  adorn 
tracts  of  sm 
of  the  shad 
which  the  bi 
limpid  wate 
up  slight  ex 
just  above  t 
cheering  in 
thraldom  of 
of  Christra£ 
mony  and  s 
pointed  witl 
from  the  cl 
thatched  cc 
kept  by  ricl 
the  year,  at 
you  go,  anc 
you ;  and  I 
malediction 


The  'Sqi 
games  and 
among  the 
the  old  hal 
at  daylight 
aud  humm 
day  long, 


f   -^ 


il  Tf 


CHRISTMAS  DAT. 


167 


(fiat,  in  the  midst  of  his  enjoyraents,  the  worthy  old  cavalier 
had  not  forgotten  the  true  Christmas  virtue  of  charity. 

On  our  way  liomeward,  his  heart  seemei'i  overflowing  with 
generous  and  happy  feelings.  As  we  passed  over  a  rismg 
ground  which  commanded  something  of  a  prospect,  the  sounds 
of  rustic  merriment  now  and  then  reached  our  ears  ;  the  'Squire 
paused  for  a  few  moments,  and  looked  around  with  an  air  of 
inexpressible  benignity.  The  beauty  of  the  day  was  of  itself 
sufficient  to  inspire  philanthropy.  Notwithstanding  the  frosti- 
ness  of  the  morning,  the  sun  in  his  cloudless  journey  had  ac- 
quired sufficient  power  to  melt  away  the  thin  covering  of  snow 
from  every  southern  declivity,  and  to  bring  out  the  living  green 
which  adorns  an  English  landscape  even  in  mid-winter.  Large 
tracts  of  smiling  verdure  contrasted  with  the  dazzling  whiteness 
of  the  shaded  slopes  and  hollows.  Every  sheltered  bank,  on 
which  the  broad  rays  rested,  yielded  its  silver  rill  of  cold  and 
limpid  water,  glittering  through  the  dripping  grass ;  and  sent 
up  slight  exhalations  to  contribute  to  the  thin  haze  that  hung 
just  above  the  surface  of  tlie  earth.  There  was  something  truly 
cheering  in  this  triumph  of  warmth  and  verdure  over  the  frosty 
thraldom  of  winter ;  it  was,  as  the  'Squire  observed,  an  emblem 
of  Christmas  hospitality,  breaking  through  the  chills  of  cere- 
mony and  selfishness,  and  thawing  every  heart  into  a  flow.  He 
pointed  with  pleasure  to  the  indications  of  good  cheer  reeking 
from  the  chimneys  of  the  comfortable  farm-houses,  and  low 
thatched  cottages.  "I  love,"  said  he,  "to  see  this  day  well 
kept  by  rich  and  poor ;  it  is  a  great  thing  to  have  one  day  in 
the  year,  at  least,  when  you  are  sure  of  being  welcome  wherever 
you  go,  and  of  having,  as  it  were,  the  world  all  thrown  open  to 
you  ;  and  I  am  almost  disposed  to  join  with  poor  Robin,  in  his 
malediction  on  every  churlish  enemy  to  this  honest  festival : 

"  Those  who  at  ChristmaB  do  repine, 
And  would  fiiiii  hence  deapatch  him, 
May  Uiey  with  old  I3uke  Humphry  diue, 
Or  else  may  'Squire  Ketch  catch  him." 

The  'Squire  went  on  to  lament  the  deplorable  decay  of  the 
games  and  amusements  which  were  once  prevalent  at  this  season 
among  the  lower  orders,  and  countenanced  by  the  higher ;  when 
the  old  halls  of  the  castles  and  manor-houses  were  thrown  open 
at  daylight ;  when  the  tables  were  covered  with  brawn,  and  beef, 
and  humming  ale ;  when  the  harp  and  the  carol  resounded  all 
day  long,  and  when  rich  and  poor  were  alike  welcome  tc  eutec 


■ 


'  liii' 

J'l'H 

1 : 1  'I^H 

m    ' 

i-! 

i    '! 


iOMiiiil 


iMHMm 


168^ 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


and  make  merry.'  "Our  old  games  and  local  customs,"  said 
he,  "  had  a  great  effect  in  making  the  peasant  fond  of  his  homo, 
and  tlie  promotion  of  tiiem  l>y  tlie  gentry  made  liim  fond  of  his 
lord.  They  made  the  times  merrier,  and  kinder,  and  better, 
aud  I  can  truly  say  with  one  of  our  old  poets, 

•  I  like  them  well  —  the  ci:riou-B  prcciseneiiB 
And  nll-pretendeil  g/avity  of  those 
That  Heek  to  banish  hence  these  harmlesn  sporta, 
Have  thrust  away  much  ancient  honesty.' 


H;l 


"The  nation,"  continued  he,  "is  altered;  we  have  almost 
lost  our  simple  true-hearted  peasantry.  They  have  hroUen 
asunder  from  the  higiier  classes,  and  seem  to  think  their  intor- 
ests  are  separate.  Tliey  have  become  too  knowing,  and  begin 
to  read  newspapers,  listen  to  alehouse  politicians,  and  talk  of 
reform.  I  think  one  mode  to  keep  them  in  good-humor  in  tliese 
hard  times,  would  be  for  the  nobility  and  gentry  to  pass  more 
time  on  their  estates,  mingle  more  among  the  country  people, 
and  set  the  merry  old  English  games  going  again." 

Such  was  the  good  'Squire's  project  for  mitigating  public  dis- 
content :  and,  indeed,  he  had  once  attempted  to  put  his  doctrine 
in  practice,  and  a  few  years  before  he  had  kept  open  house 
during  the  holidays  in  the  old  style.  The  country  peoi)le,  how- 
ever, did  not  understand  how  to  play  their  parts  in  the  sceiu;  of 
hospitality ;  many  uncouth  circumstances  occurred  ;  the  manor 
was  overrun  by  all  the  vagrants  of  the  country,  and  more  beg- 
gars drawn  into  the  neighl)orhood  in  one  week  than  the  parish 
oflicers  could  get  rid  of  in  a  year.  Since  then  he  had  contented 
himself  with  uiviting  the  decent  part  of  the  neighboring  i)oas- 
antry  to  call  at  the  Uall  on  Christmas  day,  and  with  distributing 
beef,  and  bread,  and  ale,  among  the  poor,  that  they  might  make 
merry  m  their  own  dwellings. 

We  had  not  been  long  home,  when  the  sound  of  nuisic  was 
iieard  from  a  distance.  A  oand  of  country  lads,  without  coats, 
their  shirt  sleeves  fancifully  tied  with  ribbons,  their  hats  deco- 
rated with  greens,  and  clubs  in  their  hands,  were  seen  advan- 
cing up  the  avenue,  followed  by  a  large  number  of  villagers  and 
peasantry.    They  stopped  before  the  hall  door,  where  tlie  music 

'  "An  English  gentleman  at  the  opening  of  the  great  day,  i.e.  on  ChristniiiH  day  in 
the  morning,  had  all  his  tenants  and  i.t'lixhliors  enter  his  hall  liy  day  liieak.  The  i<lniim 
beer  was  broached,  and  the  black  jacks  went  pleiilil'ully  about  with  toast,  Kuirar,  and 
nutmeg,  and  good  Cheshire  checHc.  'I'he  llackiii  (the  ijifat  Haiiwmc)  iuhhI  I)u  Iji.ileil  by 
Uay-bieak,  or  else  two  young  men  must  take  the  maiden  (/.<.  tlic  cuoU)  by  tlie  arms  uuij 
run  her  round  the  market  place  till  sbu  is  tihamed  of  her  lazinuMi. "  — /^(>u»<i  a6<.*v<  our 
Uta-Coal  I'irt. 


CHRISTMAS  DAT. 


169 


said 
nno, 
his 
tier, 


struck  up  a  peculiar  air,  and  the  lads  performed  a  curious  and 
iiitriciite  dance,  advancing,  retreating,  and  striking  their  clubs 
tojiL'ther,  keeping  exact  time  to  the  music ;  while  one,  whimsi- 
cally crowned  with  a  fox's  skin,  the  tail  of  which  flaunted  down 
his  liat'k,  kept  capering  round  the  skirts  of  the  dance,  and 
rattling  a  Christmas-box  with  many  antic  gesticulations. 

The  'Squin>  eyed  this  fanciful  exhibition  with  great  interest 
and  delight,  and  gave  me  a  full  account  of  its  origin,  which  he 
traced  to  tiic  times  when  the  Romans  held  possession  of  the 
island  ;  plainly  proving  that  this  was  a  lineal  descendant  of  the 
sword-dance  of  the  ancients.  ''  It  was  now,"  he  said,  "  nearly 
extinct,  but  he  had  accidentally  met  with  traces  of  it  in  the 
neiirliborhood,  and  had  encouraged  its  revival;  though,  to  tell 
the  truth,  it  was  too  apt  to  be  followed  up  by  rough  cudgel-play, 
and  broken  heads,  in  the  evening." 

After  the  dance  was  concluded,  the  whole  party  was  enter- 
tained with  JM'awn  and  beef,  and  stout  home-brewed.  The 
'Squire  himself  mingled  among  the  rustics,  and  was  received 
with  awkward  demonstrations  of  deference  and  regard.  It  is 
true,  I  perceived  two  or  three  of  the  younger  peasants,  as  they 
were  raising  their  tankards  to  their  mouths,  when  the  'Squire's 
back  was  turned,  making  something  of  a  grimace,  and  g^iving 
each  other  the  wink  ;  but  the  moment  they  caught  my  eye  they 
pulled  grave  faces,  and  were  exceedingly  demure.  With  Master 
Simon,  however,  they  all  seemed  more  at  their  ease.  His  varied 
occupations  and  amusements  had  made  him  well  known  through- 
out tlic  neighborhood.  He  was  a  visitor  at  every  farm-house 
and  cottage  ;  gossiped  with  the  farmers  and  their  wives ;  romped 
with  their  daughters  ;  and,  like  that  type  of  a  vagrant  bachelor 
the  humble-bee,  tolled  the  sweets  from  all  the  rosy  lips  of  the 
country  round. 

The  bashfulness  of  the  guests  soon  gave  way  before  good 
cheer  and  affability.  There  is  something  genuine  and  affection- 
ate in  tlie  gayety  of  the  lower  orders,  when  it  is  excited  by  the 
bounty  and  familiarity  of  those  above  them  ;  the  warm  glow  of 
gratitude  enters  into  their  mirth,  and  a  kind  word  or  a  small 
pleasantry  frankly  uttered  by  a  patron,  gladdens  the  heart  of 
the  dependant  more  than  oil  and  wine.  When  the  'Squire  had 
retired,  the  merriment  increased,  and  there  was  much  joking 
and  laughtor,  particularly  between  Master  Simon  and  a  hale, 
ruddy-faced,  white-headed  farmer,  who  appeared  to  be  the  wit 
of  tlie  village  ;  for  I  observed  all  his  companions  to  wait  with 
open  mouths  for  his  rotoi'ts,  anil  burst  into  a  gratuitous  laugli 
before  they  could  well  understand  them. 


,'  t 


I      M 


II  iJ 


Vfti 


m 


IHMi 


170 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


The  whole  house  Indeed  seemed  abandoned  to  merrimenv 
as  I  passed  to  my  room  to  dress  for  dinner,  I  heard  the  sound 
of  music  in  a  small  court,  and  looking  through  a  window  that 
commanded  it,  I  perceived  a  band  of  wandering  musicians,  with 
pandean  pipes  and  tambourine ;  a  pretty  coquettish  housemaid 
was  dancing  a  jig  with  a  smart  country  lad,  while  several  of 
the  other  servants  were  looking  on.  In  the  midst  of  her  sport, 
the  girl  caught  a  glimpse  of  my  face  at  the  window,  and  color- 
j'lg  up,  ran  off  with  an  air  of  roguish  affected  confusion. 


f  i^sll 


THE  CHRISTMAS   DINNER. 

Lo,  now  is  come  our  joyful'st  feast! 

Let  every  man  be  Jolly, 
Eauberoome  with  yvie  leaves  ia  dresti 

And  every  post  with  holly. 
Now  all  our  neighbours'  chimneys  smoke, 

And  Christmas  blocks  are  burning; 
Their  ovens  they  with  bak't  meats  choke, 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning. 
Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie. 
And  if,  for  cold,  It  hap  to  die. 
Wee  'le  bury  't  In  a  Christmas  pye, 
And  evermore  be  merry. —  Withbbs'  Juvenilia. 

I  HAD  finished  my  toilet,  and  was  loitering  with  Frank  Brace- 
bridge  in  the  library,  when  we  heard  a  distant  thwacking  sound, 
which  he  informed  me  was  a  signal  for  tiie  serving  up  of  the 
dinner.  The  'Squire  kept  up  old  customs  in  kitchen  as  well  as 
hall ;  and  the  rolling-pin  struck  upon  the  dresser  by  the  cook, 
summoned  the  servants  to  carry  in  the  meats. 

Just  in  this  nick  the  cook  knock'd  thric«, 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice 

His  summons  did  obey ; 
Bach  serving  man,  with  dish  in  hand. 
Marched  boldly  up,  like  our  train  band, 

Presented,  and  away.i 

The  dinner  was  served  up  \n  the  great  hall,  where  the  'Squire 
Always  held  his  Christmas  banquet.  A  blazing  crackling  fire 
of  logs  had  been  heaped  on  to  warm  the  spacious  apartment, 
And  the  flame  went  sparkling  and  wreathing  up  the  wide- 
■  ■  . 

1  Sir  John  Buckling. 


THE  CBBISTMAS  DINNER. 


in 


mouthed  chimney.  The  great  picture  oi  the  cnisader  and  his 
white  horse  had  been  profusely  decorated  with  greens  for  the 
occasion ;  and  holly  and  ivy  had  likewise  been  wreathed  round 
the  helmet  and  weapons  on  the  opposite  wall,  which  I  under- 
stood were  the  arms  of  the  same  wamor.  I  must  own,  by-the- 
by,  I  had  strong  doubts  about  the  authenticity  of  the  painting 
and  armor  as  having  belonged  to  the  crusader,  they  certainly 
having  the  stamp  of  more  recent  days ;  but  I  was  told  that  thfr 
painting  had  been  so  considered  time  out  of  mind ;  and  that, 
as  to  the  armor,  it  had  been  found  in  a  lumber-room,  and  ele« 
vated  to  its  present  situation  by  the  'Squire,  who  at  once  deter- 
mined it  to  be  the  armor  of  the  family  hero ;  and  as  he  was 
absolute  authority  on  all  such  subjects  in  his  own  household, 
the  matter  had  passed  into  current  acceptation.  A  sideboard 
was  set  out  just  under  this  chivalric  trophy,  on  which  was  a 
display  of  plate  that  might  have  vied  (at  least  in  variety)  with 
Belshazzar's  parade  of  the  vessels  of  the  temple ;  "  flagons., 
cans,  cups,  beakers,  goblets,  basins,  and  ewers  ;  "  the  gorgeous 
utensils  of  good  companionship  that  had  gradually  accumulated 
through  many  generations  of  jovial  housekeepers.  Before  these 
stood  the  two  yule  candles,  beaming  like  two  stars  of  the  first 
magnit'ide ;  other  lights  were  distributed  in  branches,  and  the 
whole  array  glittered  like  a  firmament  of  silver. 

"We  were  ushered  into  this  banqueting  scene  with  the  sound 
of  minstrelsy ;  the  old  harper  being  seated  on  a  stool  beside 
the  fireplace,  and  twanging  his  instrument  with  a  vast  deal 
more  power  than  melody.  Never  did  Christmas  board  display 
a  more  goodly  and  gracious  assemblage  of  countenances  ;  those 
who  were  not  handsome,  were,  at  least,  happy ;  and  happiness 
is  a  rare  improver  of  your  hard-favored  visage.  I  always  con- 
sider an  old  English  family  as  well  worth  studying  as  a  collec- 
tion cf  Holbein's  portraits,  or  Albert  Durer's  prints.  There 
is  much  antiquarian  lore  to  be  acquired ;  much  knowledge  of 
the  physiognomies  of  former  times.  Perhaps  it  may  be  from 
having  continually  before  their  eyes  those  rows  of  old  family 
portraits,  with  which  the  mansions  of  this  country  are  stocked  ; 
certain  it  is,  that  the  quaint  features  of  antiquity  are  often 
most  faithfully  perpetuated  in  these  ancient  lines ;  and  I  have 
traced  an  old  family  nose  through  a  whole  picture-gallery, 
legitimately  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation,  almost 
from  the  time  of  the  Conquest.  Something  of  the  kind  was  to 
be  observed  in  the  worthy  company  around  me.  Many  of  their 
faces  had  evidently  originated  in  a  Gothic  age,  and  been  merely 
copied  by  succeeding  generations  ;  and  there  was  one  little  girif 


M'^' 


i  I ' 


0 


i-..e:j»s**««ia**.-*n  ji»*ff'.'n- 


h''. 


172 


THE  SKETCn-BOOK. 


In  particular,  of  staid  dcraoanor,  with  »  high  Roman  nose,  and 
an  anti(iue  vinegar  aspect,  wlio  was  a  great  favoriU'  of  tho 
'Squire's,  being,  as  lie  said,  a  liracebridge  all  over,  niul  tlio  very 
counterpart  of  one  of  liis  ancestors  who  figured  in  the  court 
of  Henry  VIII. 

The  parson  said  grace,  wliich  was  not  a  short  familiar  one, 
such  as  is  c«minonly  addressed  to  the  Deity  in  these  uncercmo* 
nious  days ;  but  a  long,  courtly,  well-worded  one  of  the  ancient 
school.  There  was  now  a  i)anse,  as  if  souielliing  was  expt-t'tcd; 
when  suddenly  the  butler  entered  the  hall  with  some  demct'  of 
bustle  ;  he  was  attended  by  a  servant  on  each  side  with  a  larjre 
wax-light,  and  bore  a  silver  dish,  on  which  was  an  cnonnoiis 
pig's  head,  decorated  with  rosemary,  with  a  lemon  in  its  mouth, 
which  was  placed  with  great  formality  at  the  head  of  the  table. 
The  moment  this  pageant  made  its  appearance,  the  harper 
struck  up  a  flourish ;  at  the  conclusion  of  which  the  young 
Oxonian,  on  receiving  a  hint  from  the  'Squire,  gave,  with  an 
air  of  the  most  comic  gravity,  an  old  carol,  the  first  verse  of 
which  was  as  follows : 

j ,     .  •  Caput  aprl  defero  i  .  . 

RcddiMiK  InudoH  Daraino. 
The  boar'K  head  in  hand  bring  I, 
With  garlandH  gny  and  roseinary. 
I  pray  you  all  8ynge  naerrlly 

Qui  cslis  in  convlvio. 

Though  prepared  to  witness  many  of  these  little  eccentrici- 
ties, from  being  apprised  of  the  peculiar  hobby  of  mine  host; 
yet,  I  confess,  the  parade  with  which  so  odd  a  dish  was  intro- 
duced somewhat  perplexed  me,  until  I  gathered  from  the  con- 
versation of  the  'Squire  and  the  parson,  that  it  was  meant  to 
represent  the  bringing  in  of  the  boar's  head  —  a  dish  formerly 
served  up  with  much  ceremony,  and  the  sound  of  miustrelsv 
and  song,  at  great  tables  on  Christmas  day.  "  I  like  the  old 
custom,"  said  the  'Squire,  "  not  merel}'  because  it  is  stately 
and  pleasing  in  itself,  but  l)ecause  it  was  observed  at  the  col- 
lege at  Oxford,  at  which  I  was  educated.  When  I  hear  the 
old  song  chanted,  it  brings  to  mind  the  time  when  I  was  young 
and  g;unesome  —  and  tlu;  noble  old  college  hall  —  and  my  fel- 
low— ■:=  loitering  about  in  their  l)lack  gowns;  many  of 
whoiii.  jioi  .  iadr,  are  now  in  their  graves !  " 

*iiui  parson,  however,  wliose  mind  was  not  haunted  by  such 
ass<«ei£kCiiou^.  anu  who  was  always  more  taken  up  with  the  text 
tham  the  aeotimeut,  objecu^d  ^  thf  Oxonian's  version  of  the 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER. 


178 


carol ;  which  he  afBnnod  was  different  from  that  sung  at  coU 
lege.  He  went  on,  with  the  dry  perseverance  of  a  ommenta- 
tor,  to  give  the  college  reading,  accompanied  by  sundry  annota* 
tions ;  addressing  himself  at  first  to  the  company  at  large  ;  but 
finding  their  attention  gradually  diverted  to  other  talk,  and 
other  objects,  he  lowered  his  tone  as  his  number  of  auditors 
diminished,  until  he  concluded  his  remarks  in  an  under  voice, 
to  a  fat-headed  old  gentleman  next  him,  who  was  silently  en- 
gaged in  the  discussion  of  a  huge  plate-full  of  turkey.* 

The  table  was  literally  loaded  with  good  cheer,  and  presented 
an  epitome  of  country  abundance,  in  this  season  of  overflowing 
larders.  A  distinguished  post  was  allotted  to  •  ancient  sir- 
loin," as  mine  host  termed  it;  being,  as  he  added,  "  the  stand- 
ard of  old  English  hospitality,  and  a  joint  of  goodly  presence, 
and  full  of  expectation."  There  were  several  dishes  quaintly 
decorated,  and  which  had  evidently  something  traditional  in 
their  embellishments ;  but  about  which,  as  I  did  not  like  to 
appear  over-curious,  I  asked  no  questions. 

I  could  not,  however,  but  notice  a  pie,  magnificently  deco- 
rated with  peacocks'  feathers,  in  imitation  of  the  tail  of  that 
bird,  which  overshadowed  a  considerable  tract  of  the  table 
This,  the  'Squire  confessed,  with  some  little  hesitation,  was  a 
pheasant  pie,  though  a  peacock  pie  was  certainly  the  most 
aulhentical;  but  there  had  been  such  a  mortality  among  the 
peacocks  this  season,  that  he  could  not  prevail  upon  himself  to 
have  one  killed.' 

'  The  old  ceremony  of  nerving  up  the  boar*R  head  on  Christmafi  day,  is  rUH  cbgerved 
In  the  hall  of  Queen's  College,  Oxford.  I  was  favored  by  the  parBon  with  a  copy  of  the 
oarol  n«  now  euiig,  and  as  it  may  be  acceptable  to  such  of  roy  readers  as  are  curious  iB 
these  grave  and  learned  matters,  I  give  it  entire : 

The  boar's  head  in  hand  bear  I, 
Bedeck'd  with  bays  and  rosemary; 
And  I  pray  you,  ray  musters,  be  merry, 
Quot  cstls  in  lonvlvio. 

Caput  apri  defero. 

Reddens  laudes  Domino. 

The  boar's  head,  as  I  understand, 
l8  the  rnroRt  dish  in  all  thiH  land, 
Which  thus  bedeck'd  with  a  gay  garland 
Let  us  serviro  caiitico. 
Caput  apri  defero,  etc. 

Our  steward  hath  provided  this 
Ir  honour  of  the  King  of  Bliss, 
Which  on  this  day  to  be  served  U 
lu  Reginensi  Atrio. 
Caput  apri  defero, 
etc.,  etc.,  etc 

»  The  peacock  was  anciently  in  great  demand  for  stately  entertainments.    Bometimes 
It  was  made  Into  a  pie,  at  one  end  of  which  the  head  appeared  above  the  crust  in  all  Ita 


!      i 


:<..ii, 


I  } 


174 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


Ul 


It  would  be  tedious,  perhaps,  to  my  wiser  readers,  who  maj 
not  have  that  foolish  fondness  for  odd  and  obsolete  things  to 
which  I  am  a  little  given,  were  I  to  mention  the  other  make- 
shifts of  this  worthy  old  humorist,  by  which  he  was  endeavor- 
ing  to  follow  up,  though  at  humble  distance,  the  quaint  cus- 
toms of  antiquity.  I  was  {)leased,  however,  to  see  the  respect 
shown  to  his  whims  by  his  children  and  relatives ;  who,  in- 
deed,  entered  readily  into  the  full  spirit  of  them,  and  seemed 
all  well  versed  in  then-  pu'.t?;  having  doubtless  been  present  at 
many  a  rehearsal.  1  was  amused,  too,  at  the  air  of  profound 
gratuity  with  which  the  butler  and  other  servants  executed  the 
duties  assigned  them,  however  eccentric.  They  had  an  old- 
fashioned  look  ;  having,  i(K  the  most  part,  been  brought  up  in 
the  household,  and  grown  into  keeping  with  the  antiquated  man- 
sion, and  the  humors  of  its  lord  ;  aud  most  probably  looked 
upon  all  his  whimsical  regulations  as  the  established  laws  of 
honorable  housekeeping. 

When  the  cloth  was  removed,  the  butler  brought  in  a  hufje 
silver  vessel,  of  rare  and  curious  workmanship,  which  he 
placed  before  the  'Squire.  Its  appearance  was  hailed  with 
acclamation  ;  being  thi3  Wassail  IJowl,  so  renowned  in  Christ- 
mas festivity.  The  contents  had  been  ])repared  by  the  'S(juire 
himself ;  for  it  was  a  beverage,  in  the  skilful  mixture  of  wliicli 
he  particularly  prided  himself :  alleging  tliat  it  was  too  ab- 
struse and  complex  for  the  comprehension  of  an  ordinary  ser- 
vant. It  was  a  potation,  ludeed.  that  might  well  make  the 
heart  of  a  toper  leap  within  him ;  being  composed  of  tin'  rich- 
est and  raciest  wines,  highly  spiced  aud  sweetened,  with  rousted 
apples  bobbing  about  the  surface.^ 

plumage,  with  the  beak  richly  ^It;  at  the  other  end  the  tail  was  displayed.  Htich  piet 
were  served  up  at  the  Rolemti  banqiietH  of  chivalry,  when  KnlghtH-orrant  pledjicJ  them- 
selves  to  undertake  any  perilouH  enterprise,  whence  came  the  ancient  oath,  uwed  liy  Jus- 
',ice  Shallow,  "  by  cock  and  pie." 

The  peacock  was  also  an  important  dish  for  the  Christmas  feast,  and  Massingcr,  in 
Ills  City  Madam,  gives  some  idea  of  the  extra'ixcance  w'.h  which  tliis,  as  well  as  other 
iisties,  WHS  prepared  for  the  gorgeous  revels  of  the  cidej  times  : 
Men  iniiy  talk  of  ('oiiiitry  ChristniaHses. 

Their  ihiity  i)onn<l  bulter'd  eggs,  llivii'  pies  of  carps'  tongues  : 
Their  pheasants  drench'd  witli  ambergris;  t/ie  ii.riiinen  o/  three  fat  >rel/ifr.i  Imiinfd 

,fiir  rjrnnii to  iiinke  miitce  for  it  sinytr  jieiiim  k  ! 
'  The  Wassail  Howl  was  sometimes  componi'd  of  ale  instead  of  wiiur,  %vith  niit. 
meg,  sugar,  toast,  iriiii.'cr,  iiiid  i-oiiFted  cnili":  In  itii,' way  the  tint -bitiv.'ii  bi'veni;;',' i.x  htil' 
i'l'opnred  In  some  old  families,  and  round  the  hearths  of  nubstantial  farmers  nt 
I'biistmaH.  It  16  also  callud  l>amb'ii  Wool,  aud  is  celebrated  by  Ilerrick  in  liii  i  ui.'!:Vi 
iSii-lbt: 

Next  crowne  the  bowlc  lull 
With  gentle  l.amii's  Wool, 
Add  nuuar,  nutmeg,  and  dinger, 
With  store  of  ale  too ; 
And  thus  ye  ranst  doe 
Tu  loake  Ut«  WaMaiie  •  swlogMT. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER. 


175 


The  old  gentleman's  whole  countenance  beamed  with  a  serene 
look  of  indwelling  delight,  as  he  stirred  this  mighty  bowl. 
Having  raised  it  to  his  lips,  with  a  hearty  wish  of  a  merry 
Christmas  to  all  present,  he  sent  it  brimming  round  tlie  board, 
for  every  one  to  follow  his  example  according  to  the  primitive 
style;  pronouncing  it  "the  ancient  fountain  of  good  feehng, 
where  all  hearts  met  together."  ^ 

There  was  much  laughing  and  rallying,  as  the  honest  emblem 
of  Christmas  joviality  circulated,  and  was  kissed  rather  toyly 
l)y  the  ladies.  When  it  reached  Master  Simon,  he  raised  it 
in  1  til  hands,  and  with  the  air  of  a  boon  compauioa,  struck  up 
an  old  Wassail  Chanson : 


The  brown  bowle, 

The  merry  brown  bowle, 

Ab  it  goc'8  round  about-a, 

Kill 

Still, 
Let  the  world  say  what  it  will, 
And  drink  yuur  till  all  out-a. 

The  deep  canne, 

The  merry  deep  canne, 

Ah  thou  doHt  freely  quaff -a, 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be  as  raorry  as  a  king. 
And  sound  a  lusty  laugb-a.* 


M 


Much  of  the  conversation  during  dinner  turned  upon  family 
topics,  to  which  I  was  a  stranger.  There  was,  liowever,  a  great 
deal  of  rallying  of  Master  Simon  about  some  gay  widov,  with 
whom  he  was  accused  of  having  a  flirtation.  Tliis  attack  7,'i.s 
commenced  by  the  ladies  ;  but  it  was  continued  tliroughout  the 
dinner  l)y  tlie  fat-headed  oUl  gentleman  next  the  parson,  with 
the  porsevering  assiduity  of  a  flow  hound  ;  being  one  of  those 
loni^-winded  jokers,  who,  though  latlier  dull  at  starting  game, 
are  unrivalled  for  their  talents  in  hunting  it  down.  At  every 
pause  in  the  general  conversation,  he  renewed  his  bantering  in 
pretty  much  the  same  terms  ;  winking  Imrd  at  me  with  both 
eyes,  whenever  he  gave  IMasior  Simon  what  he  eonsidcred  a 
home  thrust.     The  latter,  indeed,  seemed  fond  of  being  teased 

'  "The  cuHlom  of  drinking  out  of  the  Mnnic  cup  irave  place  to  earli  having  hi.i  cup. 
When  the  Htowurd  came  to  the  dooie  v/ith  the  NVuHnel,  he  was  tu  cry  three  limes, 
Wa.ini'l,  W'dssrI,  WdnHil,  and  then  the  ehuppeil  (chupluin)  wan  tc  answer  with  a 
»0n({."—  AriliiTnlnpiii. 

>  Froiu  I'uur  Uubia's  AUuunuck. 


'y.\ 


mmef. 


176 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


' 


m 


on  the  subject,  as  old  bachelors  are  apt  to  be ;  and  he  took 
occasion  to  inform  rae,  in  an  under-tone,  that  the  buly  in 
question  was  a  prodigiously  fine  woman  and  drove  hor  own 
curricle. 

The  dinner-time  passed  away  in  this  tiow  of  innocent  hilarity, 
and  though  the  old  hall  may  have  resounded  in  its  time  with 
many  a  scene  of  broader  rout  and  revel,  yet  I  doubt  whether  it 
ever  witnessed  more  honest  and  genuine  enjoyment.  How  easy 
it  is  for  one  benevolent  being  to  diffuse  pleasure  arouiul  liim; 
and  how  truly  is  a  kind  heart  a  fountain  of  gladness,  making 
every  thing  in  its  vicinity  to  freshen  into  smiles  !  The  joyous 
disposition  of  the  worthy  'Squu-e  was  perfectly  contagious ;  he 
was  happy  himself,  and  disposed  to  make  all  the  world  haitpy; 
and  the  little  eccentricities  of  his  humor  did  but  season,  in  a 
manner,  the  sweetness  of  his  philanthropy. 

When  the  ladies  had  retired,  the  conversation,  as  usual,  be- 
came still  more  animated :  many  good  things  were  broached 
which  had  been  thought  of  during  dinner,  but  which  would  not 
exactly  do  for  a  lady's  ear ;  and  though  I  cannot  positively 
affirm  that  there  was  much  wit  uttered,  yet  I  have  cortaiiily 
heard  many  contests  of  rare  wit  produce  much  less  lauLihtcr. 
Wit,  after  all,  is  a  mighty  tart,  pungent  ingredient,  and  much 
too  acid  for  some  stomachs  ;  but  honest  good-humor  is  tlie  oil 
and  wine  of  a  meiry  meeting,  and  there  is  no  jovial  companion- 
ship equal  to  that,  where  the  jokes  are  rather  small  and  the 
laughter  abundant. 

The  'Squire  told  several  long  stories  of  early  college  pranks 
and  adventures,  in  some  of  which  the  parson  had  been  a  sharer; 
though  in  looking  at  the  latter,  it  required  some  effort  of  imajri- 
nation  tc  figure  such  a  little  dark  anatomy  of  a  man,  into  the 
perpetrator  of  a  madcap  gambol.  Indeed,  the  two  college 
chums  presented  pictures  of  what  men  may  be  made  by  their 
different  lots  in  life :  the  'Squire  had  left  the  university  to  live 
lustily  on  his  paternal  domains,  in  the  vigorous  enjoyment  of 
prosperity  and  sunshine,  and  had  flourished  on  to  a  hearty  and 
florid  old  age  ;  whilst  the  poor  parson,  on  the  contrary,  lunl 
dried  and  withered  away,  among  dusty  tomes,  in  the  silence 
and  shadows  of  his  study.  Still  there  seemed  to  be  a  spark  of 
almost  extinguished  'fire,  feebly  glimmering  in  the  bottom  of 
his  soul ;  and,  as  the  'Squire  hinted  at  a  sly  story  of  the  parson 
and  a  pretty  milk-maid  whom  they  once  met  on  the  hanks  of 
the  Isis,  the  old  gentleman  made  an  "  alphabet  of  faces."  which, 
as  far  as  T  could  decipher  his  physiognomy,  I  verily  bclii'vi'  was 
indicative  of  laughter;  —  indeed.  I  have  rarely  met  with  an  old 


gentler 


._  Braan  th 
of  his  youth. 
I  found  th 
land  of  sob 
louder,  as  tl 
chirping  a  h 
songs  grew 
maudlin  abo 
the  wooing  c 
from  an  exc 
for  Love  ; ' ' 
vThich  he  pre 


n 


This  song 

several  attei 

was  pat  to 

everybody  r 

parson,  too, 

gradually  sc 

suspiciously 

moned  to  th 

gation  of 

with  a  prop 

After  the 

the  youngci 

of  noisy  inii 

walls  ring 

games.     I 

particularly 

stealing  oul 

of  lauglitei 

Master  Sin 

on  all  occai 

Lord  of  M 

little  being! 

Falstaff;  \ 

tickling  hir 

>   At  ChriHtl 

lordeof  mixru 
wery  I'.oblumu 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER. 


177 


ilarity, 
le  with 
>tlier  it 
w  easy 

liim; 

living 
Joyous 
is;  lie 
lappy; 

in  a 


gentleman  that  took  absolute  offence  at  the  imputed  gallantries 
of  bis  youth. 

I  found  the  tide  of  wine  and  wassail  fast  gaining  on  the  dry 
land  of  sober  judgment.  The  company  grew  merrier  and 
louder,  as  tlieir  jokes  grew  duller.  Master  Simon  was  in  as 
chirping  a  humor  as  a  grasshopper  filled  with  dew ;  his  old 
3on,i];s  grew  of  a  warmer  complexion,  and  he  began  to  talk 
maudlin  about  the  widow.  He  even  gave  a  long  song  about 
the  wooing  of  a  widow,  which  he  informed  me  he  had  gathered 
from  an  excellent  black-letter  work  entitled  "  Cupid's  Solicitor 
for  Love  ;  "  containing  store  of  good  advice  for  bachelors,  and 
vTbich  he  promised  to  lend  me  ;  the  first  verse  was  to  this  effect : 

He  tbiU  vriU  woo  a  -widow  must  not  dally, 
lie  luiiHt  mikke  hay  while  the  eun  doth  8hiue ; 

lie  inuHi  uot  stikiid  with  ber,  shall  I,  shall  I, 
But  boldly  Huy,  Widow,  thuu  inu8t  be  mine. 

This  song  inspired  the  fat-headed  old  gentleman,  who  made 
several  attempts  to  tell  a  rather  broad  story  of  Joe  Miller,  that 
was  pat  to  the  purpose ;  but  he  always  stuck  in  the  middle, 
everybody  recollecting  the  latter  part  excepting  himself.  The 
parson,  too,  began  to  show  the  effects  of  good  cheer,  having 
gradually  settled  down  into  a  doze,  and  his  wig  sitting  most 
suspiciously  on  one  side.  Just  at  this  juncture  we  were  sum- 
moned to  the  drawing-room,  and  I  suspect,  at  the  private  insti- 
gation of  mine  host,  whose  joviality  seemed  always  tempered 
with  a  proper  love  of  decorum. 

After  the  dinner-table  was  removed,  the  hall  was  given  up  to 
the  younger  members  of  the  family,  who,  prompted  to  all  kind 
of  noisy  mirth  by  the  Oxonian  and  Master  Simon,  made  its  old 
walls  ring  with  their  merriment,  as  they  played  at  romping 
games.  I  delight  in  witnessing  the  gambols  of  children,  and 
partieiilarly  at  this  liappy  holiday  season,  and  could  not  help 
stealing  out  of  the  drawing-room  on  hearing  one  of  their  peals 
of  laughter.  I  foi:nd  them  at  the  game  of  blind-man's-buff. 
Master  Simon,  who  was  the  leader  of  their  revels,  and  seemed 
on  all  occasions  to  fuUil  the  office  of  that  ancient  potentate,  the 
Lord  of  Misrule,^  was  blinded  in  the  midst  of  the  hall.  The 
little  beings  were  as  bus}  about  him  as  the  mock  fairies  about 
Falstaff ;  pinching  him,  plucking  at  the  sKirts  of  his  coat,  and 
tickling  him  with  straws.    One  fine  blue-eyed  girl  of  about  thir- 

•  At  ChriRtmasBe  there  was  In  the  Kinges  house,  wheresoever  hee  was  !idged,  a 
lordeof  minrule,  or  raaystur  of  merle  dlsportes,  and  the  like  had  ye  in  the  house  of 
wery  I'.oblumuu  uf  houour;  or  good  worabippVi  were  he  spirituall  or  tvmporall. — ciTuwi. 


J!,.' 


i 


178 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


■} 


teen,  with  her  flaxen  hair  all  in  beautiful  confusion,  her  frolic 
face  m  a  glow,  her  frock  half  torn  off  her  shoulders,  a  complete 
picture  ofa  romp,  was  the  chief  tormentor ;  and  from  the  shy- 
ness  with  which  Master  Simon  avoided  the  smaller  game,  and 
hemmed  this  wild  little  nymph  in  corners,  and  obliged  her  to 
jump  slirieking  over  chairs,  I  suspected  the  rogue  of  being  not 
a  whit  more  blinded  than  was  convenient. 

When  I  returned  to  the  drawing-room.  I  found  the  company 
seated  round  the  tire,  listening  to  the  parson,  who  was  deeply 
ensconced  in  a  high-backed  oaken  chair,  tiie  woi-k  of  soiiii. 
cr.nning  Mviificer  ol"  yore,  wliicli  had  buen  brought  from  {\w 
liluary  lor  his  particular  acconnnotlation.  From  this  veiioi- 
able  piece  of  furniture,  with  which  his  shadowy  llgure  niul 
dark  weazen  face  so  admirably  accorded,  he  was  dealing  out 
stiiinge  accounts  of  the  popular  superstitions  and  legends  of  the 
i5urrounding  country,  with  which  he  had  become  accpiaintod  in 
the  course  of  his  anticpiarian  researches.  1  am  iialf  incHned 
to  think  that  the  old  gentleman  was  himself  somewhat  liiic- 
tnred  with  superstition,  as  men  are  very  apt  to  be,  wiio  live  a 
recluse  and  studious  life  in  a  secpiesU'red  part  of  the  country, 
and  pore  over  black-letter  tracts,  so  often  tilled  with  the  mar- 
vellous and  supernatural.  He  gave  us  several  anecdotes  of  the 
fancies  of  the  neighboring  peasantry,  concerning  the  elligy  of 
the  crusader,  which  lay  on  the  tomb  by  the  church  altar.  As 
it  was  the  only  monument  of  the  kind  in  that  part  of  the  coun- 
try, it  had  always  been  regarded  with  feelings  of  superstition 
by  the  good  wives  of  the  village.  It  was  said  to  get  up  from 
the  tomb  and  walk  the  rounds  of  the  churchyard  in  stormy 
nights,  particularly  when  it  thundered :  and  one  old  woman 
whose  cottage  bordered  on  the  churchyard,  had  seen  it  through 
the  windows  of  the  church,  when  the  moon  shone,  slowly  pa- 
cing up  and  down  the  aisles.  It  was  the  belief  that  sonic  wrong 
had  been  left  unredressed  by  the  deceased,  or  some  treasure 
bidden,  which  kept  the  spirit  in  a  state  of  trouble  and  rcsstloss- 
ness.  Some  talked  of  gold  and  jewels  buried  in  the  tomb,  ovei' 
which  the  spectre  kept  watch  ;  and  there  was  a  story  current 
of  a  sexton,  in  old  times,  who  endeavored  to  break  his  way  to 
the  coflin  at  night ;  but  just  as  he  reached  it,  received  a  violent 
blow  from  the  marble  hand  of  the  elllgy,  which  stretched  him 
senseless  on  the  pavement.  These  tales  were  often  lauglied 
at  by  some  of  the  sturdier  among  the  rustics  ;  yet  when  night 
came  on,  there  were  many  of  the  stoutest  unbelievers  that 
were  shy  of  venturing  alone  ia  the  footpath  that  led  across  the 
churchyard. 


i1 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER. 


179 


From  these  and  other  anecdotes  that  followed,  the  crusader 
appeared  to  be  the  favorite  hero  of  ghost  stories  throughout 
the  vicinity.  His  picture,  which  hung  U})  in  the  hall,  was 
thought  by  the  servants  to  have  something  supernatural  about 
it:  for  they  remarked  that,  in  wliatever  i)art  of  the  hall  you 
went,  the  eyes  of  the  warrior  were  still  fixed  on  you.  The  old 
porter's  wi.e,  too,  at  the  lodge,  who  had  been  born  and  brought 
up  in  the  family,  and  was  a  great  gossip  among  the  maid-ser- 
vants, affirmed,  that  in  her  young  days  she  had  often  heard  say, 
that  on  Midsummer  eve,  when  it  was  well  known  all  kinds  of 
ghosts,  goblins,  and  fairies  become  visible  and  walk  abroad, 
the  crusader  used  to  mount  his  horse,  come  down  from  his 
picture,  ride  about  the  house,  down  the  avenue,  and  so  to  the 
church  to  visit  the  tomb ;  on  which  occasion  tlie  church  door 
most  civilly  swung  open  of  itself;  not  that  he  needed  it  —  for 
he  rotle  through  closed  gates  and  even  stone  ".'iills,  and  had 
been  seen  by  one  of  the  dairy-maids  to  jiass  bdtween  two  bars  of 
the  great  park  gate,  making  himself  as  tliin  as  a  sheet  of  paper. 

All  these  superstitions  I  found  had  been  very  nmch  coun- 
tcnauccd  by  the  'Squire,  who,  though  not  superstitious  him- 
self, was  very  fond  of  seeing  others  so.  He  listened  to  every 
goblin  tale  of  the  neighboring  gossips  with  infinite  gravity, 
and  held  tlie  porter's  wife  in  high  favor  on  account  of  her 
talent  for  the  marvellous.  He  was  himself  a  great  reader  of 
old  legends  and  romances,  and  often  lamented  that  he  could 
not  l)elieve  in  them  ;  for  a  superstitious  person,  he  thought, 
must  live  in  a  kind  of  fairy  land. 

Whilst  we  were  all  attention  to  the  parson's  stories,  our  ears 
were  suddenly  assailed  by  a  burst  of  heterogeneous  sounds 
from  the  hall,  in  which  were  mingled  something  like  the  clang 
of  rude  minstrels}',  with  the  ui)roar  of  many  small  voices  and 
girlisli  laughter.  The  door  suddenly  flew  open,  and  a  train 
came  trooping  into  the  room,  that  might  almost  have  been 
mistaken  for  tlie  breaking  up  of  the  court  of  Kairy.  That  in- 
defatigable spirit.  Master  Simon,  in  the  faithful  discharge  of 
his  duties  as  lord  of  misrule,  had  conceived  the  idea  of  a 
Christmas  munnnery,  or  masking ;  and  having  called  in  to 
his  assistance  the  Oxonian  and  the  young  oflicer,  who  were 
equally  rpe  for  any  thing  that  should  occasion  romiiing  and 
merriment,  they  had  carried  it  into  instant  etfect.  The  old 
housekeeper  had  been  consulted  ;  the  antique  clothes-presses 
and  wardrobes  rummaged,  and  made  to  yield  up  the  relics  of 
finery  that  had  not  seen  the  light  for  several  generations ;  the 
younger  part  of   the   company  had  been   privately  convened 


,  1 


i^mm 


180 


TBH  SKSTCM-BOOE. 


n 


PC     t 


from  parlor  and  hall,  and  the  whole  had  been  bedizened  out, 
into  a  burlesque  imitation  of  an  antique  mask.^ 

Master  Simon  led  the  van  as  "  Ancient  Christmas,"  iniaintlj 
apparelled  in  a  ruff,  a  short  cloak,  which  had  very  much  the 
aspect  of  one  of  the  old  housekeeper's  petticoats,  and  u  hat 
that  might  have  served  for  a  village  steeple,  and  must  indubi- 
taDly  have  figured  in  the  days  of  the  Covenanters.  From  under 
this,  his  nose  curved  boldly  forth,  Hushed  with  a  fro&t-bitteu 
bloom  that  seemed  the  very  trophy  of  a  December  blast,  llu 
was  accompanied  by  tlie  blue-eyed  romp,  dished  up  as  -■  Duiuu 
Mince  Pie,"  in  the  veueral»le  uiaguifioeuce  of  a  faded  brucuUo. 
long  stomacher,  peaked  hat,  and  high-heeled  shoes. 

The  young  ollicer  appeared  as  Itobiu  Hood,  in  v.  s()Oitii,- 
dress  of  Kendal  green,  aud  a  foraging  cap  with  a  gold  tassel. 

The  costume,  to  be  sure,  did  not  bear  testimony  to  dec[i 
research,  aud  there  was  an  evident  eye  to  the  picturesque, 
natural  to  a  young  gallant  in  the  i)reseuce  of  his  mistress.  The 
fair  Julia  hung  on  his  arm  in  a  pretty  rustic  dress,  as  "  Muid 
Marian."  The  rest  of  the  train  had  been  metamorphosed  in 
various  ways.  Tlie  girls  trussed  up  in  the  finery  of  tlie  ancient 
belles  of  the  Bracebridge  line,  and  the  striplings  bewhiskered 
with  burnt  cork,  and  gravely  clad  in  broad  skirts,  haugiiii,' 
sleeves,  aud  full-bottomed  wigs,  to  represent  the  characters  oi 
Roast  Beef,  Plum  Pudding,  and  other  worthies  celebrated  in 
ancient  maskiugs.  The  whole  was  under  the  control  of  the 
Oxonian,  in  the  appropriate  character  of  Misrule  ;  aud  I  ob- 
served that  he  exercised  rather  a  mischievous  sway  with  his 
wand  over  the  smaller  personages  of  the  pageant. 

The  irruption  of  this  motley  crew,  with  beat  of  drum,  ac- 
cording to  ancient  custom,  was  the  consummation  of  u[)roai 
and  merriment.  Master  Simon  covered  himself  with  glory  by 
the  statoliness  with  which,  as  Ancient  Christmas,  he  walked  u 
minuet  with  the  peerless,  though  giggling.  Dame  Mince  i'ie. 
It  was  followed  by  a  dance  of  all  the  characters,  which,  from 
its  medley  of  costumes,  seemed  as  though  the  old  family*  por- 
traits had  skipped  down  from  their  frames  to  join  in  the  sport. 
Different  centuries  were  figuring  at  cross-hands  and  right  and 
left ;  the  dark  ages  were  cutting  pirouettes  and  rigadoons  ;  and 
the  days  of  Queen  Bess,  jigging  merrily  down  the  m'ddlc, 
through  a  line  of  succeeding  generations. 

The  worthy  'Squire  contemplated  theee  fantastic  sports,  and 

'  Masklnes  or  muraraertes,  were  favorite  eportf  at  Cbrlgtinas,  in  old  limed;  and 
the  uardrolies  :'.  iiulld  uud  manor-bouBei)  were  ufteii  '^id  under  cootributlou  to  furui«b 
diespori  ao'  iaiita»>tic  disuuiHtiiKH.  I  BtroiiKlv  nuBpect  .^Mter  Simou  U>  b«ve  loksu  tke 
Ulea  I}'  lud  t'rum  Hau  Juuaou'g  MuHUUtt  ut'  C^lntouu, 


THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER. 


181 


d  out, 

iiaintly 
ch  the 

u  hat 
imlubi- 

uadi'i' 
-bitteu 

Ho 

UCUtlf. 


this  resurrection  of  his  old  wardrobe,  with  the  simple  relish  of 
fhildish  delight.  He  stood  chuckling  and  rubbing  his  hands, 
mul  sicarceiy  hearing  a  word  the  parson  said,  notwithstanding 
th;it  the  latter  was  discoursing  most  authentically  on  the  an- 
cienT  and  stately  dance  of  the  Pavon,  or  peacock,  from  which 
he  conceived  the  minuet  to  be  derived.*  For  m}-  part  I  was  in 
a  continual  excitement  from  the  varied  scenes  of  whim  and  in- 
nocent gayety  passing  before  me.  It  was  inspiring  to  see  wild- 
eyed  frolic  and  warm-hearted  hospitality  breaking  out  from 
amons:  the  chills  and  glooms  of  winter,  and  old  age  throwing  off 
his  apathy,  and  catching  once  more  the  freshness  of  youthful 
enjoyment.  I  felt  also  an  interest  in  the  scene,  from  the  con- 
sideration that  these  fleeting  customs  were  posting  fast  into 
oblivion,  and  that  this  was,  perhaps,  the  only  family  in  England 
in  which  the  whole  of  them  were  still  punctiliously  observed. 
There  was  a  quaintness,  too,  mingled  with  all  this  revelry,  that 
gave  it  a  peculiar  zest :  it  was  suited  to  the  time  and  place  ;  and 
as  the  old  Manor-house  almost  reeled  with  mirth  and  wassail,  it 
Bcemed  echoing  back  the  joviality  of  long-departed  years. 

But  enough  of  Christmas  and  its  gambols :  it  is  time  for  me 
It)  pause  in  this  garrulity.  Methinks  I  hear  the  qnostions  askcl 
hy  my  craver  readers,  "To  what  purpose  is  all  this  —  how  is 
th.c  woiid  to  he  made  wiser  by  this  talk?  "  Alas  !  is  there  not 
wisdom  enough  extant  for  the  instruction  of  the  world?  And 
if  not,  are  there  not  thousands  of  abler  pens  laboring  for  its 
improvement?  —  It  is  so  much  pleasanter  to  please  than  to 
instruct  —  to  play  the  companion  rather  than  the  preceptor. 

What,  after  all,  is  the  mite  of  wisdom  that  I  could  throw  into 
the  mass  of  knowledge ;  or  how  am  I  sure  that  my  sagest  de- 
ductions may  be  safe  guides  for  the  opinions  of  others  ?  But  in 
writing  to  amuse,  if  I  Fail,  the  only  evil  is  in  my  own  disappoint^ 
ment.  If,  however,  I  can  by  any  lucky  chance,  in  these  days 
f)f  p"il,  rub  out  one  wrinkle  from  the  brow  of  care,  or  beguile 
the  heavy  heart  of  one  moment  of  sorrow  —  if  I  can  now  and 
then  penetrate  through  the  gathering  film  of  misanthropy, 
prompt  a  be.  evolent  view  of  human  nature,  and  make  my 
reader  more  in  good  humor  with  his  fellow-beings  and  himself, 
surely,  surely,  I  shall  not  then  have  written  entirely  in  vain.' 


'  Hir  John  Ilawklug,  speaking  of  the  dance  cai'ed  the  Pavon,  from  pavo,  a  pea- 
cock, Rayg,  "It  i8  a  grave  and  raajcRtic  dance;  the  irtetbod  of  dancing  it  anciently 
wan  liy  Kentlenirn  dresBed  with  caps  and  swordR,  by  those  of  the  long  robe  in  tlieii 
fTuwijH.  liy  the  peers  in  their  mantles,  aud  by  the  Ibdlcs  in  gowns  with  long  trains 
tb«  uiuiion  whereof,  in  dancing,  resembled  that  of  »  peaco.'k."  -  ■  JJUtery qfJturta 

*  Appendix,  Note  X 


m 


'  ^i 


(■ ' 


1^ 


m: 


■i 


1W 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


.  ' 


[The  following  modicum  of  local  history  was  lately  put  inm 
my  hands  by  an  odd-looidng  old  gontlcmau  in  a  small  brown 
wig  and  snuff-colorcd  coat,  with  whom  I  became  acijuaiuted  in 
tlie  course  of  one  of  my  tours  of  observation  tiirough  the  centre 
of  that  gr(!at  wilderness,  the  City.  I  confess  that  1  was  a  little 
dubious  at  first,  whether  it  was  not  one  of  those  apocryphal 
tales  often  passed  off  upon  in(iuiring  travellers  like  myself; 
and  which  have  brought  our  general  character  for  veracity  into 
such  unmerited  reproach.  On  making  i)roper  inquiries,  how 
e\er,  I  have  received  the  most  satisfactory  assurances  of  the 
author's  probity;  and,  indeed,  have  been  told  that  he  is  actually 
engaged  in  a  full  and  particular  account  of  the  very  iuLerobtiii<> 
region  in  which  he  resides,  of  which  the  following  may  b« 
considered  merely  as  a  foretaste.^ 

[lo  the  author's  rerlscd  edition  the  article  entiticd  "  London  Antiques  "  baa  buua  Ub 
wned  here,  and  the  above  note  has  bccu  replaced  by  tliut  uti  page  2Ua.J 


:i 


LITTLE   BRITAIN. 

What  1  write  i«  moBt  true  ...  I  Iiave  a  wliole  boolie  of  ca«e«  lying  by  me,  whicli  H 
I  should  sette  foortb,  some  grave  ouutieuts  (witbiii  the  bearing  of  Bow  bell)  would  bo 
ont  of  charity  with  me.  —  NASUii. 

In  the  centre  of  the  great  City  of  London  lies  a  small  neigh- 
borhood, consisting  of  a  cluster  of  nariow  streets  and  courts, 
of  very  venerable  and  debilitntod  houses,  which  goes  r)y  the 
name  of  Little  IJiutain.  Christ  Church  school  and  St.  Bar- 
tholomew's hospital  bound  it  on  the  west ;  Smithfield  and  Long 
lane  on  the  north ;  Aldersgate-street,  like  an  arm  of  the  sea, 
divides  it  from  the  eastern  part  of  the  city  ;  whilst  the  yawning 
gulf  of  Bull-and-Mouth-street  sepaiates  it  from  Butcher  lane, 
and  the  regions  of  New-Gate.  Over  this  little  territory,  thus 
bounded  and  designated,  the  great  dome  of  St.  Paul's,  swelling 
above  the  intervening  houses  of  Paternoster  Row,  Amen  Cor- 
ner, and  Ave-Maria  lane,  looks  down  with  an  air  of  motherly 
protection. 

This  quarter  derives  its  appellation  fi'om  having  been,  in 
ancient  times,  the  residence  of  the  Dukes  of  Brittany.  As  Lon- 
don increased,  however,  rank  and  fashion  rolled  off  to  tin;  west, 
and  trade  creeping  on  at  their  heels,  took  possession  of  their 
deserted  abodes.  For  some  time.  Little  Britain  became  the 
great  mart  of  learning,  and  was  peopled  by  the  busy  and  pro- 
lific race  of  booksellers :  these  also  gradually  deserted  it, 
and,  emigrating  beyond  the  great  strait  of  New-(late-street, 
nettled  down  in  Paternoster  Row  and  St.  Paul's  Church. yard 


if 


LITTLE  BRITAIN. 


IHS 


where  they  continue  to  increase  and  multiply..  'U'en  at  the  pres- 
ent day. 

But  though  thus  fallen  into  decline,  Little  Hiitain  still  bears 
traces  of  its  former  si)lendor.  There  are  several  houses,  ready 
to  tumble  down,  the  fronts  of  which  are  mngnifieenlly  emlched 
with  old  oaken  carvings  of  hideous  faces,  unknown  birds,  beasta 
and  fishes ;  and  fruits  and  flowers,  whicli  it  would  perplex  a 
naturalist  to  classify.  There  are  also,  in  Aldersgate-street, 
certain  remains  of  what  were  once  spacious  nud  lordly  family 
mansions,  but  which  have  in  latter  days  been  subdivided  into 
several  tenements.  Here  may  often  be  found  the  family  of  a 
petty  tradesman,  with  its  trumpery  furniture,  burrowing  among 
the  relics  of  antiquated  finery,  in  great  rambling  time-stained 
apartments,  with  fretted  ceilings,  gilded  cornices,  and  enormous 
marble  fire-places.  The  lanes  and  courts  also  contain  many 
smaller  houses,  not  on  so  grand  a  scale;  but,  like  your  small 
ancient  gentry,  sturdily  maintaining  Iheir  claims  to  equal  an- 
tiquity. These  have  their  gable-ends  to  the  street;  great  bow- 
windows,  with  diamond  panes  set  in  lead;  grotesque  carvings; 
and  low-arched  doorways.' 

In  this  most  venerable  and  sheltered  little  nest  have  I  passed 
several  quiet  years  of  existence,  comfortably  lodged  in  the 
second  floor  of  one  of  the  smallest,  but  oldest  edifices.  My 
sitting-room  is  an  old  wainscoted  chamber,  with  small  panels, 
and  set  off  with  a  miscellaneous  array  of  furniture.  I  have  a 
particular  respect  for  three  or  four  high-backed,  claw-footed 
chairs,  covered  with  tarnished  brocade,  which  bear  the  marks 
of  having  seen  better  days,  and  have  doubtless  figured  in  some 
of  the  old  palaces  of  Little  Britain.  They  seem  to  me  to  keep 
together,  and  to  look  down  with  sovereign  contempt  upon  their 
leathern-bottomed  neighbors ;  as  I  have  si-t-n  decayed  gentry 
carry  a  higli  head  among  the  plebeian  society  with  which  they 
were  reduced  to  associate.  The  whole  frojit  of  my  sittmg-room 
is  taken  up  with  a  bow-window ;  on  the  panes  of  which  are 
recorded  the  names  of  previous  occupants  for  many  genera- 
tions ;  mingled  with  scraps  of  very  iiidiiTerent  gentleman-like 
poetry,  written  in  ciiaracters  which  I  can  scarcely  decipher; 
and  which  extol  the  charms  of  many  a  beauty  of  Little  Britain, 
who  has  long,  long  since  bloomed,  faded,  and  passed  away. 
As  I  am  an  idle  personage,  with  no  apparent  occupation,  and 
pay  my  bill  regnli'irly  every  week,  T   v.m  hooked  upon   as  the 


A  ■) 


-t-iil 


'   , 


'  It  is  evident  that  thr  niithor  of  lh'«  iiilcruHtiiiK  oomniuniciUion  has  included  in  his 
general  title  of  Little  Ki  it^iln,  iiiiuiy  of  lilOHti  little  luues  and  courtd  thai,  belnrii^  iiumo<U> 
"Ucly  to  Cloth  Fair 


184 


THE  SKETCn-BOOK. 


\\]  1 


.;-'i  J 


I  ••it 


only  independent  frontloman  of  the  neighborhood  ;  and  Ving 
curious  to  le!vrn  tlio  internal  state  of  a  ooinmunitj^'so  apparently 
shut  up  within  itself,  I  have  managed  to  work  uiy  way  into  all 
the  concerns  and  secrets  of  the  place. 

Little  Britain  may  truly  be  called  the  heart's-core  of  the  city; 
the  strong-hold  of  true  John  Bullism.  It  is  a  fragment  of  Lon- 
don  as  it  was  in  its  better  days,  with  its  antiquated  folks  and 
fashions.  Here  flourish  in  great  preservation  many  of  the 
holiday  games  and  customs  of  yore.  The  inhabitants  most 
religiously  eat  pancakes  on  Shrove-Tucsday  ;  hot-cross-buns  on 
Good-Friday,  and  roast  goose  at  Michaelmas  ;  they  send  lovo- 
letters  on  Valentine's  Day  ;  t)urn  the  Pope  on  the  Fifth  of  No- 
vember, and  kiss  all  the  girls  under  the  mistletoe  at  Christmas. 
Roast  b.^of  and  plum-pudding  are  also  held  in  superstitious 
veneration,  and  port  and  clierry  maintain  their  grounds  as  the 
only  true  Eni^lish  wines  —  all  others  being  considered  vile  out- 
landish beverages. 

Little  Britain  hns  its  long  catalogue  of  city  wonders,  which 
its  inhabitants  consider  the  wonders  of  the  world  :  such  as  the 
great  bell  of  St.  Paul's,  which  sours  all  the  beer  when  it  tolls; 
the  figures  thut  strike  the  hours  at  St.  Dunstan's  clock ;  the 
Mouumeut ;  the  lions  in  the  Tower ;  and  the  wooden  giants  in 
Guildhall.  The}'  still  believe  in  dreams  and  fortune-telling; 
and  an  old  woman  that  lives  in  Bull-and-Mouth-street  makes  a 
tolerable  subsistence  by  detecting  stolen  goods,  and  promising 
the  girls  good  husbands.  They  are  apt  to  be  rendered  uncom- 
fortable by  comets  and  eclipses ;  and  if  a  dog  howls  dolefully 
at  night,  it  is  looked  upon  as  a  sure  sign  of  a  death  in  the 
place.  There  are  even  many  ghost  stories  current,  particr.iarly 
concerning  the  old  mansion-houses  :  m  several  of  which  it  is 
said  strange  sights  are  sometimes  seen.  Lords  and  ladies,  the 
former  in  full-bottomed  wigs,  hanging  sleeves,  and  swords,  the 
latter  in  lappets,  stays,  hoops,  and  brocade,  have  been  seen 
walking  up  and  down  the  great  waste  chambers,  on  moonlight 
nights ;  and  are  supposed  to  be  the  shades  of  the  ancient  pro- 
prietors in  their  court-dresses. 

Little  Britain  has  likewise  its  sages  and  great  men.  One  of 
the  most  important  of  the  former  is  a  tall  dry  old  gentleman, 
of  the  name  of  Skryme,  who  keeps  a  small  apothecary's  shop. 
He  has  a  cadaverous  countenance,  full  of  cavities  and  projec- 
tions ;  with  a  brown  circle  round  each  eye,  like  a  pair  of  horn 
spectacles.  He  is  much  thought  of  by  the  old  women,  who 
consider  him  as  a  kind  of  conjurer,  because  he  has  two  or  three 
stuffed  alligators  hanging  up  in  his  shop,  and  several  sua!:"s  iu 


-  .t^^fr^t  V*-^* 


LITTLE  BRITAIN. 


186 


bottles.  He  is  a  great  reader  of  almanacs  and  newspapers, 
aiul  is  much  given  to  pore  over  alarming  accounts  of  plots,  con- 
spiracies, fires,  eartliqualtes,  and  volcanic  eruptions  ;  which  last 
phenomena  he  considers  as  sigrd  of  the  times.  He  has  always 
sonic  dismal  tale  uf  the  kind  to  deal  out  to  his  customers,  with 
their  doses,  and  thus  at  th.e  same  time  puts  both  soul  and  body 
into  an  uproar.  He  is  a  great  believer  in  omens  and  predic- 
tions, and  has  the  prophecies  of  Robert  Nixon  and  Mother 
Shipton  by  heart.  No  man  can  nia!:e  io  much  out  of  an  eclipse, 
or  even  an  unusually  dark  day;  ari  he  shook  the  tail  of  the 
last  comet  over  the  heads  of  his  customers  and  disciples  until 
they  were  nearly  frightened  out  of  their  wits.  He  has  lately 
got  hold  of  a  popular  legend  or  prophecy,  on  which  he  has  been 
unusually  eloquent.  There  has  been  a  saying  current  among 
the  ancient  Sibyls,  who  treasure  up  these  things,  that  when 
the  grasshopper  on  the  top  of  the  Exchange  shook  hands  with 
the  dragon  on  the  top  of  Bow  Church  steeple  fearful  events 
would  take  place.  This  strange  conjunction,  it  seems,  has  as 
strangely  come  to  pass.  The  same  architect  has  been  engaged 
lately  on  the  repairs  of  the  cupola  of  the  Exchange,  and  the 
steeple  of  Bow  Chuich ;  and,  fearful  to  relate,  the  dragon  and 
the  grasshopper  actually  lie,  cheek  by  jole,  in  the  yard  of  his 
workshop. 

"Others,"  as  Mr.  Skryme  is  accustomed  to  say,  "may  go 
star-gazing,  and  look  for  conjunctions  in  the  heavens,  but  here 
is  a  conjunction  on  the  earth,  near  at  home,  and  under  our  own 
eyes,  wliich  surpasses  all  the  signs  and  calculations  of  astrolo- 
gers." Since  these  portentous  weathercocks  have  thus  laid 
their  heads  together,  wonderful  events  had  already  occurred. 
The  good  old  king,  notwithstanding  that  he  had  lived  eighty-two 
years,  had  all  at  once  given  up  the  ghost ;  another  king  had 
mounted  the  tinonc  ;  a  royal  duke  had  died  suddenly  —  another, 
in  Frauee,  had  been  murdered  ;  there  had  been  radical  meetings 
In  all  parts  of  the  kingdom ;  the  bloody  scenes  at  Manchester 
—  the  great  plot  in  Cato-street;  —  and,  above  all,  the  Queen 
had  returned  to  England !  All  these  sinister  events  are  re- 
counted by  Mr.  Skryme  with  a  mysterious  look,  and  a  dismal 
shake  of  the  head  ;  and  being  taken  with  his  drugs,  and  asso- 
ciated in  the  minds  of  his  auditors  with  stuffed  sea-mon'^ters, 
bottled  serpents,  and  his  own  visage,  which  is  a  title-page  of 
tribulation,  they  have  spread  great  gloom  through  the  minds 
of  the  people  in  Little  Britain.  They  shake  their  heads  when- 
ever they  go  by  Bow  Church,  and  observe,  that  they  never 
expected  any  good  to  conie  of  taking  down  that  steeple.  wbich» 


I  ■: 


M- 


•msm 


188 


THE  SKETCn-BOOK. 


>-■> 


'•■i 


in  old  timps,  told  nothino;  but  glad  tidings,  as  the  history  of 
Wliittingtoii  and  his  cat  boars  witness. 

Tlie  rival  oraelc  of  Little  Hritain  is  a  substantial  cheesemon' 
ger,  wlio  lives  in  a  fragnicut  of  one  of  the  old  family  mansions, 
and  is  as  magniliceutiy  lodged  as  a  round-bellied  mite  in  the 
midst  of  one  of  his  own  Cheshires.  Indeed,  he  is  a  man  of  no 
little  standing  and  importance  ;  and  his  renown  extends  tiirough 
Huggin  lane,  and  Lad  lane,  and  even  unto  Aldermanluny. 
His  opinion  is  vciy  nuich  taken  in  atfairs  of  state,  having  read 
the  Sunday  papers  for  the  last  half  century,  together  with  Iho 
Gentleman's  iMagazine,  Hapin's  History  of  Kngland,  and  the 
Naval  Chronicle.  His  head  is  stored  with  invaluable  niaxims 
which  have  borne  the  test  of  time  and  use  for  centuries.  It  is 
his  lirm  opinion  tliat  -*it  is  a  moral  impossible,"  so  long  as 
England  is  true  to  herself,  that  any  thing  can  shake  her :  and 
he  has  much  to  say  on  the  subject  of  the  national  debt ;  which, 
somehow  or  other,  he  proves  to  bo  a  great  natiomvl  bulwark 
and  blessing.  He  passed  the  greater  part  of  his  life  in  the 
purlieus  of  Little  Hritain,  until  of  late  years,  when,  having  be- 
come rich,  and  grown  into  the  dignity  of  a  Sunday  cane,  he 
begins  to  take  his  pleasure  and  see  the  world.  He  lias  there- 
fore made  several  excursions  to  Hampstead,  Highgate,  and 
othei  neighboring  towns,  where  he  has  passed  whole  afternoons 
in  looking  back  upon  the  metropolis  througli  a  telescope,  and 
endeavoring  to  descry  the  steeple  of  St.  liarthohjuiew's.  Not 
a  stage-coachman  of  Uull-aiid-Mouth-street  but  touches  his  hat 
as  he  i)asses ;  and  he  is  considered  quite  a  patron  at  the  coach- 
office  of  the  Goose  and  (iridiron,  St.  Paul's  Churchyard.  His 
family  iiave  been  very  urgent  for  him  to  make  an  expedition  to 
Margate,  but  he  has  great  'loubts  of  those  new  gimcracks  the 
steamboats,  and  indeed  thinks  himself  too  advanced  in  life  to 
undertake  sea-voyages. 

Little  Britain  has  occasionalh*  its  factions  and  divisions,  anil 
party  spirit  ran  very  high  at  one  time,  in  consequence  of  two 
rival  "  Burial  Societies"  being  set  up  in  the  place.  One  held 
Its  meeting  at  the  Swan  and  Horse-Shoe,  and  was  patronize  J  by 
the  cheesemonger ;  tl.e  other  at  the  Cock  and  Crown,  under  the 
auspices  of  the  apothecary  :  it  is  needless  to  say,  that  the  latter 
was  the  most  flourishing.  I  have  passed  an  evening  or  two  at 
each,  and  have  acquired  much  valual)le  information  as  to  the 
best  mode  of  being  buried ;  the  comparative  merits  of  church- 
yards ;  together  with  divers  hints  on  tlie  subject  of  patent  iron 
cotlins.  I  have  heard  the  question  discussed  in  all  its  bearings, 
as  to  the  legality  of  prohibiting  the  latter  on  account  of  their 


durability, 
pily  died  ol 
themes  of  < 
treniely  8oli( 
in  their  gra\ 
Besides  t 
a  different 
humor  over 
■i  little  old- 
of  Wagstat 
with  a  mof 
covered  wil 
rarer;  sucl 
Kum,  and 
etc."     Thi 
from  time 
the  Wagst! 
present  laii 
cavalieros 
and  then  b 
Wa;4staff  ] 
Eij^hth,  in 
of  his  anc( 
is  consider 
landlord. 

The  clu 
the  name 
abound  in 
tional  in  t 
the  nietroj 
table  at  a 
prime  wit 
ancestors 
the  inn  a 
generatioi 
fellow,  wi 
merry  ey< 
open  ng 
fession  o 
Gam  ner 
varialionf 
been  a  st; 
ever  sinct 
have  ofte 


u 


LITTLE  liRITAlN. 


187 


durability.  The  feuds  occasioned  by  these  societies  have  hap- 
pily (lied  of  late;  but  thoy  wore  for  a  long  time  prcvaillnj.'; 
themes  of  controversy,  tlic  people  of  Little  Hritain  beinj^  ex- 
tromely  solicitous  of  funereal  honors,  and  of  lying  comfortably 
in  their  graves. 

Besides  these  two  funeral  societies,  there  is  a  third  of  quite 
a  different  cast,  which  tends  to  tlu'ow  the  sunshine  of  godd 
iiumor  over  tlie  wliole  ncighl)orhood.  It  meets  once  a  weeli  al 
•A  little  old-fashioned  house,  kept  l)y  a  jolly  pul)lican  of  the  uauu' 
of  Wagstaff,  and  bearing  for  insignia  a  resplendent  half-moon, 
with  a  most  seductive  bunch  of  gra])eH.  The  old  edifice  is 
covered  with  Inscriptions  to  catch  the  eye  of  the  thirsty  way- 
farer; such  as  "Truman,  Ilanbury  &  Co.'s  Entire,"  "Wine, 
Kuril,  and  lirandy  Vaults,"  "  OUl  Tom,  Hum,  and  Compounds, 
etc."  This,  indeed,  lia.s  been  a  temple  of  Hacchus  and  Moraus, 
from  time  immemorial.  It  has  always  lieen  in  the  family  of 
the  Wagstaffs,  so  that  its  history  is  tolerably  preserved  by  the 
present  landlord.  It  was  much  frequented  by  the  gallants  and 
eavalieros  of  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  and  was  looked  into  now 
and  then  by  the  wits  of  Charles  the  Second's  day.  But  what 
Wagstaff  principally  prides  himself  upon,  is,  that  Henry  the 
Piiizhth,  in  one  of  his  nocturnal  rambles,  broke  the  head  of  one 
of  liis  ancestors  with  his  famous  walking-staff.  This,  however, 
is  coiisidered  as  rather  a  dubious  anil  vainglorious  boast  of  the 
huidlonl. 

The  club  which  now  holds  its  weekly  sessions  here,  goes  by 
the  name  of  "the  Roaring  Lads  of  Little  Britain."  They 
abound  in  old  catches,  glees,  and  choice  stones,  that  are  tradi- 
tional in  the  i)lace,  and  not  to  be  met  with  in  any  other  part  of 
the  metropolis.  There  is  a  madcap  undertaker,  who  is  inimi- 
table at  a  merry  song  ;  but  the  life  of  the  club,  and  indeed  the 
prime  wit  of  Little  Britain,  is  bully  Wagstaff  himself.  His 
ancestors  were  all  wags  before  him,  and  he  has  inherited  with 
the  inn  a  large  stock  of  songs  and  jokes,  which  go  with  it  from 
generation  to  generation  as  heir-looms.  He  is  a  dapper  little 
follow,  with  bandy  legs  and  pot  belly,  a  red  face  with  a  moist 
merry  eye,  and  a  little  shock  of  gray  hair  behind.  At  the 
open  iig  of  every  club  night,  he  is  called  in  to  sing  his  "Con- 
fession of  Faith,"  which  is  the  famous  old  drinking  trowl  from 
Gam  ner  Gurton's  needle.  He  sings  it,  to  be  sure,  wit"  many 
variations,  as  he  received  it  from  his  father's  lips ;  for  it  has 
been  a  standing  favorite  at  the  Half-Moon  and  Bunch  of  Grapes 
ever  since  it  was  written  ;  nay,  he  aflirras  that  his  predecessors 
have  often  bad  the  honor  of  singing  it  uefore  the  nobility  aod 


I 


183 


TBE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


m 


gentry  at  Christmas  mummeries,  when  Little  Britain  was  in  all 
its  glory. ^ 

It  would  do  one's  heart  good  to  hear  on  a  club-night  the 
shouts  of  merriment,  the  snatches  of  song,  and  now  and  then 
the  choral  bursts  of  half  a  dozen  discordant  voices,  which  issue 
from  this  jovial  mansion.  At  such  times  the  street  is  lined 
with  listeners,  who  enjo}'  a  delight  equal  to  that  of  gazing  into 
a  confectioner's  window,  or  snuffing  up  the  steams  of  a  cook- 
shop. 

There  are  two  annual  events  which  produce  great  stir  and 
sensation  in  Little  Britain ;  these  are  St.  Bariholomew's  Fair, 
and  the  Lord  Mayor's  day.     During  the  time  of  the  Fair,  which 

>  As  mine  boHt  of  the  Ualf-Moon'e  Confession  of  Faith  may  not  be  familiar  to  tfae 
majority  of  rpaders,  and  as  it  is  a  specimen  of  tile  current  songs  of  Little  Britain,  I  sub- 
join H  in  its  original  orthography.  I  would  observe,  that  the  whole  club  always  jola  iu 
'.he  cboruii  with  a  fearful  thumping  on  the  table  and  clattering  of  pewter  pots. 

I  cannot  eate  but  lytle  racate, 

My  storaacke  is  not  good, 
But  sure  1  thinke  that  I  can  drinke 

With  him  that  wpares  a  hood. 
Though  I  go  bare  take  ye  no  care, 

1  nothing  am  a  culde, 
I  stuff  my  skyn  so  full  within, 

Of  Joly  good  ale  and  oide. 

Chorut.  Bucire  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare, 
Bo  h  footc  and  liaud  (?o  colde, 
But  belly,  Uod  send  thee  good  ale  ynoughe, 
Whether  it  be  new  or  olde. 

I  have  no  rost,  but  t.  nut  brawne  toatu 

And  a  ciab  laid  iu  the  fyre; 
A  little  breade  shall  do  me  ateade, 

Much  breadu  1  not  desyre. 
Ko  frost  nor  snow,  nor  wlnde  I  trowe, 

Can  hurte  mee  if  I  wolde, 
I  am  so  wrapt  and  throwiy  lapt 

Of  Joly  good  ale  and  oldie. 

CKoru*.  Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  eto. 

And  tyb  my  wife,  that,  as  her  lyfe, 

Loveth  well  good  ale  to  seeke, 
Full  oft  drynkes  shee,  tyll  ye  may  Me 

The  teares  run  downe  her  cheeke. 
Then  doth  shee  trowle  to  me  the  buwla, 

Even  as  a  mault-worroe  sholde, 
And  sayth,  sweete  harte,  I  took  my  part* 

Of  this  joly  good  ale  and  olde. 
Vtarui-  Backe  and  syde  go  bare,  go  bare,  etc. 

Kow  let  them  drynke,  tyll  they  nod  and  wlaktt, 

Even  as  goode  feliowus  sholde  doe, 
They  shall  not  mysse  to  have  the  blisae. 

Good  ale  doth  bring  men  to. 
And  all  pooro  soulcs  that  have  acowred  bowl««, 

Or  have  them  lustily  trolde, 
God  save  the  lyvea  of  them  and  their  wires. 

Whether  they  be  yonge  or  olde. 
(Home.  Baoko  and  ayde  go  bare,  go  bare.  ate. 


7.  :  - 


LITTLE  BRITAIN. 


189 


is  held  in  the  adjoining  regions  of  Smithfield,  there  is  nothing 
going  on  but  gossiping  and  gadding  about.  The  late  quiet 
streets  of  Little  Britain  are  overrun  with  an  irruption  of  strange 
figures  and  faces  ;  —  every  tavern  is  a  scene  of  rout  and  revel. 
The  fiddle  and  the  song  are  heard  from  the  tap-room,  morning, 
noon,  and  night ;  and  at  each  window  may  be  seen  some  group 
of  boon  companions,  with  half-shut  eyes,  hats  on  one  side,  pipe 
in  mouth,  and  tankard  in  hand,  fondling  and  prosing,  and  sing- 
ing maudlin  songs  over  their  liquor.  Even  the  sober  decorum 
of  private  families,  which  I  must  say  is  rigidly  kept  up  at  other 
times  among  my  neighbors,  is  no  proof  against  this  Saturnalia. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  keeping  maid  servants  within  doors. 
Their  brains  are  absolutely  set  madding  with  Punch  and  the 
Puppet  Show ;  the  Flying  Horses ;  Signior  I'olito ;  the  Fire- 
Eater;  the  celebrated  Mr.  Paap;  and  the  Irish  Giant.  The 
children,  too,  lavish  all  their  holiday  money  in  toys  and  gilt 
gingerbi'ead,  and  fill  the  house  with  the  Liliputian  din  of  drum.s, 
trumpets,  and  penny  whistles. 

But  the  Lord  Mayor's  day  is  the  great  anniversary.  The 
Lord  Mayor  is  looked  up  to  by  the  inhabitants  of  Little  Britain, 
as  the  greatest  potentate  upon  earth ;  his  gilt  coach  with  six 
horses,  as  the  summit  of  human  splendor ;  and  his  procession, 
with  all  the  Sheriffs  and  Aldermen  in  his  train,  as  the  grandest 
of  earthly  pageants.  How  they  exult  in  the  idea,  that  the  King 
himself  dare  not  enter  the  city  without  first  knocking  at  the  gate 
of  Temple  Bar,  and  asking  permission  of  the  Lord  Mayor ;  for 
if  he  did,  heaven  and  earth !  there  is  no  knowing  what  might 
be  the  consequence.  The  man  in  armor  who  rides  before  the 
Lord  Mayor,  and  is  the  city  champion,  has  orders  to  cut  down 
everybody  that  offends  against  the  dignity  of  the  city  ;  and  then 
there  is  the  little  man  with  a  velvet  porringer  on  his  head,  who 
sits  at  the  window  of  the  state  coach  and  holds  the  city  sword, 
as  long  as  a  pike-staff  —  Od's  blood  I  if  he  once  draws  that 
sword.  Majesty  itself  is  not  safe  ! 

Under  the  protection  of  this  mighty  potentate,  therefore,  the 
good  people  of  Little  Britain  sleep  in  peace  Temple  Bar  is  an 
effectual  barrier  against  all  internal  foes  ;  and  as  to  foreign  in- 
vasion, the  Lord  Mayor  has  but  to  throw  himself  into  the 
Tower,  call  in  the  train  bands,  and  put  the  standing  army  of 
Beef-eaters  under  arms,  and  he  may  bid  defiance  to  the  world ! 

Thus  wrapped  up  in  its  own  concerns,  its  own  habits,  and 
Its  own  opinions,  Little  Britain  has  long  flourished  as  a  sound 
heart  to  this  great  fungous  metropolis.  I  have  pleased  myself 
with  considering  it  as  a  choseu  spot,  where  the  principles  of 


h'l. 


190 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


\ 


sturdy  John  Bullism  were  garnered  uj),  like  seed-corn,  to  renew 
the  national  chtiracter,  when  it  had  run  to  waste  and  degeneracy. 
1  have  rejoiced  also  in  the  genial  spirit  of  harmony  that  pre- 
vailed  throughout  it ;  for  thoi  gh  there  might  now  and  then  be 
a  few  clashes  of  opinion  between  the  adherents  of  the  cheese- 
monger and  the  apothecary,  and  an  occasional  feud  between 
the  burial  societies,  yet  these  were  bu^  transient  clouds,  and 
soon  passed  away.  The  neighbors  met  with  good-will,  parted 
with  a  shake  of  the  hand,  and  never  abused  each  other  except 
behind  their  backs. 

I  could  give  rare  descriptions  of  snug  junketing  parties  at 
which  1  have  been  present;  where  we  played  at  All-Fours, 
Pope-Joan,  Tom-come-tickle-me,  and  other  choice  old  games: 
and  where  we  sometimes  had  a  good  old  English  country  dance, 
to  the  tune  of  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley.  Once  a  year  also  the 
neighbors  wouui  gather  together,  and  go  on  a  gypsy  party  to 
Epping  Forest.  It  would  have  done  any  man's  heart  good 
to  see  the  merriment  that  took  place  here,  as  we  banqueted  on 
the  grass  under  the  tiees.  How  we  made  the  woods  ring  with 
bursts  of  laughter  at  the  songs  of  little  Wagstaff  and  the  merry 
undertaker !  Aftei-  dinner,  too,  the  young  folks  would  play  at 
blindman's-buff  and  hide-and-seek  ;  and  it  was  amusing  to  see 
them  tangled  among  the  briers,  and  to  hear  a  fine  romping  girl 
now  and  then  squeak  from  among  the  bushes.  The  elder  folka 
would  gather  round  the  cheesemonger  and  the  apothecary,  to 
hear  them  talk  politics  ;  for  they  generally  brought  out  a  news- 
paper in  their  pockets,  to  pass  away  time  in  the  country.  They 
would  now  and  then,  to  be  sure,  get  a  little  warm  in  argument ; 
but  their  disputes  wei'e  always  a(ljusted  by  reference  to  a  wor- 
thy old  umbrella-maker  in  a  double  chin,  who,  never  exactly 
comprehending  the  subject,  managed,  somehow  or  other,  to 
decide  in  favor  of  both  parties. 

All  empires,  however,  says  some  philosopher  or  historian,, 
are  doomed  to  changes  and  revolutions.  Luxury  and  innova- 
tion creep  in  ;  factions  arise  ;  and  families  now  and  then  spring 
up,  whose  ambition  and  intrigues  throw  the  whole  system  into 
confusion.  Thus  in  latter  days  has  the  tranquillity  of  Little 
Britain  been  grievously  disturbed,  and  its  golden  sunplicity  of 
manners  threatened  with  total  subversion,  by  the  aspiring  fam- 
ily of  a  retired  butcher. 


The  family  of  the    liambs 
thrivino;  and    popidar  in    the 


had  long  been 
neighboriiood  : 


among  the  most 
the  Miss  Lam  lis 


were  the  belles  of  Little  Britain,  and  everybody  was  pleased 
when  old  Lamb  had  made  money  enough  to  shut  up  shop,  and 


put  his  nam 
however,  oi 
in  uttendan< 
on  which  o( 
her  head, 
ately  smitte 
carriage,  pi 
have  been  t 
ever  since. 
Joun  or  bl 
(juadrilles, 
and  they  to 
ing  upon  t 
to  an  attoi 
hitherto  un 
folks  excel 
Edinburgh 
AVhat  wt 
Ihoy  negle( 
luul  a  gre 
Ked-lion  S 
several  be 
lane  and  I 
ladies  witl 
forgiven, 
ing  of  whi 
and  jiugli 
bovhooti  11 
window,  w 
a  knot  of 
just  oppoi 
every  one 
This  da 
ncighborl 
to  the  I^s 
engagenu 
humdrum 
as  she  w( 
that  her 
vious  vo 
and  be  d 
eondcsci' 
and  the; 
anecdott 


LtTTLE  BRITAIN. 


191 


Jenew 

Iracy. 

pre- 

|n  be 

|eese- 

and 
irted 
pcept 


put  his  name  on  a  brass  plate  on  his  door.  In  an  evii  hour, 
however,  or 3  of  the  Miss  Ijanibs  had  the  honor  of  being  a  lady 
in  attendance  on  the  Lady  Mayoress,  at  her  grand  annual  ball, 
on  which  occasion  slie  wore  three  towering  ostrich  feathers  oa 
her  hciid.  The  family  never  got  over  it ;  they  were  immedi- 
ately smitte.i  with  a  passion  for  high  life  ;  set  up  a  one-horse 
carriage,  put  .^  bit  of  gold  lace  round  the  errand-boy's  hat,  and 
have  been  the  iall<:  and  detestation  of  the  whole  neighborhood 
ever  since.  Tlicy  could  uo  longer  be  induced  to  play  at  Pope- 
Joau  or  blindnian's-buff :  they  could  endure  no  dances  but 
quadrilles,  which  nobody  had  ever  heard  of  in  Little  Britain ; 
and  tliey  took  to  reading  novels,  talking  bad  French,  and  play- 
ing upon  the  piano.  Their  brother,  too,  who  had  been  articled 
to  an  attorney,  set  up  for  a  dandy  and  a  critic,  characters 
hitherto  unknown  in  these  parts  ;  and  he  confounded  the  worthy 
folks  exceedingly  by  talking  about  Kean,  the  Opera,  and  the 
Edinburgii  Keviev . 

What  was  still  woi-se,  the  Lambs  gave  a  grand  ball,  to  which 
thoy  neglected  to  invite  any  of  their  old  neighbors ;  but  they 
iiad  a  great  deal  of  genteel  company  from  Theobald's  Road, 
Ked-lion  Sipiure,  and  other  jiarts  toward  the  west.  There  were 
several  beaux  of  their  brother's  acquaintance  from  Gray's-Inn 
lane  and  II atton  Garden  ;  and  not  less  than  three  Aldermen's 
ladies  with  tlieir  daughters.  This  was  not  to  be  forgotten  or 
forgiven.  Ali  Little  Britain  was  in  an  uproar  with  the  smack- 
ing of  whips,  tiie  lashing  of  miserable  horses,  and  the  rattling 
and  jingling  of  luickney-coaches.  The  gossips  of  the  neigh- 
borhooil  might  be  seen  popping  their  night-caps  out  at  every 
window,  watdiing  the  crazy  vehicles  rumble  by  ;  and  there  was 
a  knot  of  virulent  ohl  cronies,  that  kept  a  look-out  from  a  house 
jnst  opposite  the  retired  butcher's,  and  scanned  and  criticised 
every  one  that  knocked  at  the  door. 

This  dance  was  the  cause  of  almost  open  war,  and  the  «rhole 
neighborhood  declared  they  would  have  nothing  more  to  say 
to  the  Lambs.  It  is  true  that  Mrs.  Lamb,  when  she  had  no 
engagements  with  lier  (inality  acquaintance,  would  give  little 
humdrum  tea  junketings  to  some  of  her  old  cronies,  "<iuite," 
as  she  would  say,  ''  in  a  friendly  way  ; "  and  it  is  equally  true 
that  her  invitations  were  always  accepted,  in  spite  of  all  pre- 
vious vows  to  the  contrary.  Nay,  the  good  ladies  would  sit 
and  be  delighted  with  the  music  of  the  Miss  Lambs,  who  would 
('on<l('scend  to  thrum  an  Irish  melody  for  them  on  the  piano ; 
and  Ihey  would  listen  with  wonderful  interest  to  Mrs.  Lamb's 
anecdotes  of  Alderman   riuuket's  family  of   Foi  tsokenward, 


til        J! 


■   . ' 


% 


U 


mmmmm 


132 


TUB  SKETCH-BOOK. 


and  the  Miss  Timberlakcs,  the  rich  heiresses  of  Crutched-Frjars ; 
but  then  they  relieved  their  consciences,  and  averted  tlie  re- 
proaches of  their  confederates,  by  canvassing  at  the  noxt  gos. 
siping  convocation  every  thing  that  had  passed,  and  piilUng  the 
Lambs  and  their  rout  all  to  pieces. 

The  only  one  of  the  family  that  could  not  be  made  fashion- 
able, was  the  retired  butcher  himself.  Honest  Lamb,  in  spite 
of  the  meekness  of  his  name,  was  a  rough  heaily  old  fellow, 
with  the  voice  of  a  lion,  a  head  of  black  hair  like  a  shoe-brnsh, 
and  a  broad  face  mottled  like  his  own  beef.  It  was  in  vain 
that  the  daughters  always  spoke  of  him  as  the  "  old  gentle- 
man," addressed  him  as  "  papa,"  in  tones  of  infinite  softness, 
and  endeavored  to  coax  him  into  a  dressing-gown  and  slippers, 
and  other  gentlemanly  habits.  Do  what  they  might,  tluue  was 
no  keeping  down  i,he  batcher.  His  sturdy  nature  would  Itioak 
througli  all  their  glozings.  He  had  a  hearty  vulgar  good-hu- 
mor, that  was  irrepressible.  His  very  jokes  made  his  sensitive 
diughters  shudder;  and  he  persisted  in  wearing  his  blue  cotton 
CJat  of  a  morning,  dining  at  two  o'clock,  and  having  a  "  hit  of 
suisage  with  his  tea." 

He  was  doomed,  however,  to  share  the  unpopularity  of  iiis 
lamily.  He  found  his  old  comrades  gradually  growing  c^>kl 
and  civil  to  him  ;  no  longer  laughing  at  his  jokes ;  and  now 
and  then  throwing  out  a  fling  at  "  some  people,"  and  a  iiint 
about  "■quality  binding."  This  botii  nettled  and  perplexed 
tlie  honest  butcher ;  and  his  wife  and  daughters,  witii  the  con- 
summate policy  of  the  shrewder  sex,  taking  advantage  of  the 
pircumstance,  at  length  prevailed  upon  him  to  give  u})  his 
afternoon's  pipe  and  tankard  at  Wagstaff's ;  to  sit  after  dinner 
by  himself,  and  take  his  pint  of  port  —  a  liquor  he  detested  — 
and  to  nod  in  iiis  cliair.  in  solitary  and  dismal  sientiiilv. 

The  Miss  Lambs  migiit  now  1)0  seen  flaunting  along  the 
streets  in  French  l)onnets,  with  unknown  beaux  ;  and  tulkini; 
and  laughing  so  loud,  that  it  distressed  the  nerves  of  every  good 
lady  within  hearing.  They  even  went  so  far  as  to  aUenipt 
patronage,  and  actually  induced  a  French  dancing-master  to 
set  up  in  the  neighborhood  ;  but  the  worthy  folks  of  Little 
Britain  took  fire  at  it,  and  did  so  persecute  the  poor  Gaul,  that 
he  was  fain  to  pack  up  fiddle  and  dancing-pumps,  and  decamp 
with  such  precipitation,  that  he  absolutely  forgot  to  pay  for  his 
lodgings. 

I  had  flattered  myself,  at  first,  with  the  idea  that  all  this 
fiery  indignation  on  the  part  of  the  community  was  merely  the 
averflowing  of   their  zeal  for  good  old   English  manners,  ami 


their  horroi 
tempt  they 
French   fasl 
that  I  soon 
neighbors, 

ample.  I 
let  their  dai 
that  they  ni 
the  course  < 
precisely  Ul 
Britain. 

1  still  hr 
away;  tha 
might  die, 
that  quiet 
mnnity. 
man  died, 
of  buxom 
in  secret  a 
all  their  el 
restrained 
against  th( 
having  ha( 
in  tlie  fast 
play  the  p 
ances,  but 
Lambs  ap 
ters  moun 
wave  a  da 
though  til 
double  til 
The  wl 
ion  able  f 
old  game 
discardec 
country-' 
under  th 
the  Misi 
Bitter  ri 
part  of 
of  Cross 
Uarthoh 
Thus 
sension 


LITTLE  BRITAIN. 


193 


their  horror  of  innovation ;  and  I  applauded  the  silent  con- 
tempt they  were  so  vociferous  in  expressing  for  upstart  pride, 
French  fashions,  and  the  Miss  Lambs.  But  I  grieve  to  say, 
that  I  soon  perceived  the  infection  had  taken  hold  ;  and  that  ray 
neighbors,  after  condemning,  were  beginning  to  follow  their  ex- 
ample. I  overheard  my  landlady  importuning  her  husband  to 
let  their  daughters  have  one  quarter  at  French  and  music,  and 
that  they  might  take  a  few  lessons  in  quadrille  ;  I  even  saw,  In 
the  course  of  a  few  Sundays,  no  loss  than  five  French  bonnets, 
precisely  like  those  of  the  Miss  Lambs,  parading  about  Little 
Britain. 

I  still  had  my  hopes  that  all  this  folly  would  gradually  die 
away  ;  that  the  Lambs  might  move  out  of  the  neighborhood ; 
migiit  die,  or  might  run  away  with  attorneys'  apprentices  ;  and 
that  quiet  and  simplicity  might  be  again  restored  to  the  com- 
n.unity.  But  unluckily  a  rival  power  arose.  An  opulent  oil- 
man died,  and  left  a  widow  with  a  large  jointure,  and  a  family 
of  buxom  daughters.  The  young  ladies  had  long  been  repining 
in  secret  at  the  parsimony  of  a  prudent  father,  which  kept  down 
all  their  elegant  aspirings.  Their  ambition  being  now  no  longer 
restrained  broke  out  into  a  blaze,  and  they  openly  took  the  field 
against  the  family  of  the  butcher.  It  is  true  that  the  Lambs, 
having  had  the  first  start,  had  naturally  an  advantage  of  them 
in  the  fashionable  career.  They  could  speak  a  little  bad  French, 
play  the  piano,  dance  quadrilles,  and  had  formed  high  acquaint- 
ances, but  the  Trotters  were  not  to  be  distanced.  When  the 
Lambs  appeared  with  two  feathers  in  their  hats,  the  Miss  Trot- 
ters mounted  four,  and  of  twice  as  fine  colors.  If  the  Lambs 
<rave  a  dance,  the  Trotters  were  sure  not  to  be  behindhand ;  and 
though  they  might  not  boast  of  as  good  comi)any,  yet  they  had 
double  the  number,  and  were  twice  as  merry. 

The  whole  community  has  at  length  divided  itself  into  fash- 
ionable factions,  under  the  banners  of  these  two  families.  The 
old  gnnies  of  Pope- Joan  and  Tom-come-tickle-me  are  entirely 
:liscardod ;  there  is  no  such  thing  as  getting  up  an  honest 
country-dance  ;  and  on  my  attempting  to  kiss  a  young  lady 
under  the  mistletoe  last  Christmas,  I  was  indignantly  repulsed ; 
the  Miss  Lambs  having  pronounced  it  "  shocking  vulgar." 
Bitter  rivalry  has  also  broken  out  as  to  the  most  fashionable 
part  of  Little  Britain  ;  the  Lambs  standing  up  for  the  dignity 
of  Cross-Keys  Stjuare,  and  the  Trotters  for  the  vicinity  of  St. 
Bartholomew's. 

Thus  is  this  little  territory  torn  by  factions  and  internal  dis- 
sensions, lilci-  (li!>  gieaf  empire  whose  name  it  bears;  and  what 


.!    ! 


*'^^-^'^*M^»t•*<^.*,A>*^A»*im0^tMJ-JLm^^am'm^•|>t:SJv>^■^:^.:M^^.M^  .l^.\ 


194 


THE  SKETVtI-IWOK. 


will  be  the  result  would  puzzle  the  apothecary  himself,  wiin  all 
his  talent  at  prognostics,  to  determine  ;  thongli  I  apprcliciid 
that  it  will  terminate  in  the  total  downfall  of  genuine  Jolin 
Bullism. 

The  immediate  effects  are  extremely  unpleasant  to  me.  He- 
ing  a  single  man,  .'aid,  a;j  I  observed  hefoie.  rather  an  idle 
good-for-nothing  pcM'sonage,  I  have  been  considered  the  only 
gentleman  by  profession  in  tiie  place.  I  stand  therefore  in  lii<rh 
favor  with  both  parties,  and  have  to  hear  all  their  cabinet  coun- 
cils and  mutual  backl)itings.  As  I  am  loo  civil  not  to  ngroo 
with  the  ladies  on  all  occasions,  I  have  connnitted  myself  aiost 
horribly  with  both  parties,  by  abusing  their  opponents.  1  might 
manage  to  reconcile  this  to  my  conscience,  which  is  a  truly  ac- 
commodating one,  but  I  cauuot  to  my  apprehension  —  if  tlie 
Lambs  and  Trotters  ever  come  to  a  reconciliation,  and  com- 
pare notes,  I  am  ruined  ! 

I  have  determined,  therefore,  to  beat  a  retreat  in  time,  and 
am  actually  looking  out  for  some  other  nest  in  tliis  great  city, 
where  old  English  manners  are  still  kept  up;  where  French  is 
neither  eaten,  drunk,  danced,  nor  spoken  ;  and  where  there  are 
no  fashionable  families  of  retired  tradesmen.  This  found,  I 
will,  like  a  veteran  rat,  hasten  away  before  I  have  an  old  house 
about  my  ears  —  bid  a  long,  though  a  sorrowful  adi(>u  to  my 
present  abode  —  and  leave  the  rival  fictions  of  the  Lambs  and 
the  Trotters,  to  divide  the  distracted  empire  of  Lmtle  Bhuain. 


STRATFORD-ON-AVON. 

Thou  soft  flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  Htrciira 

Of  thiiigH  more  thuii  mortal  swi'ot  ShaUHpeare  would  dream; 

The  fairies  by  moonliijht  diiuce  round  liis  1,'roun  lied, 

For  hallowed  the  turf  is  which  pillowed  his  head.  — Gaurick. 

To  a  homeless  man,  who  has  no  spot  on  this  wide  wrnld  which 
he  can  truly  call  his  own,  there  is  a  momentary  feeling  of  sonie- 
thing  like  independence  aiid  territorial  conseciuence,  when,  after 
a  weary  day's  travel,  he  kicks  off  his  boots,  thrusts  his  feet  into 
slippers,  and  stretches  himself  l>eff)re  an  inn  (ire.  Let  the  world 
without  go  as  it  may  ;  let  kingdoms  rise  or  fall,  so  long  as  ho 
has  the  wherewithal  to  pay  his  bill,  he  is,  for  the  time  being, 
the  very  monarch  of  all  he  surveys.  The  arm-chair  is  his 
thi'one,  the  poker  his  sceptre,  auU  the  little  purinr,   bome  twelve 


feet  square, 
tainty,  snat 
it  is  a  sum 
aud  he  who 
istence,  kno 
moments  of 

inn?"  tli^i 
elliow-ehair 

of  tlic  Ucd 
The  wore 
niy  mind  as 
clmrch  in  w 
cl^or,  and 
inquired,  w 
stood  it  as 
of  alisolutt 
like  f^  pi'inl 
(he  Stratfo 
I  went  to  1 
aud  David 
The  nex 
which  we  s 
tniddle  of 
given  way ; 
air  caine  st 
rature,  am 
jrrauce  auc 
I  had  cc 
visit  was  t 
according 
of  wool-C( 
and  plastc 
li^vht  in  hi 
squalid  cl 
every  Ian 
tions,  fro; 
striking  i 
mankind 
The  ho 
face,  ligl 
artiticial 
ingly  dir' 
relics  wi1 
There  wi 


8TRA  TFORD-ON-A  VOIf. 


195 


feet  square,  his  undisputed  etr'\re.  It  is  a  morsel  of  cer- 
tainty, snatched  from  the  mifat  of  the  uui^ertainties  of  life; 
it  is  a  sunny  moment  gleaming  out  kindly  on  a  cloudy  day ; 
aud  he  who  has  advanced  some  way  on  the  pilgrimage  of  ex- 
istence, l<nows  the  importance  of  husl)unding  even  morsels  and 
moments  of  enjoyment.  "■  Shall  I  not  take  mine  case  in  mine 
inn?"  ihoughL  1,  as  I  gave  the  (he  a  stir,  lolled  back  in  my 
elliow-chair,  and  cast  a  comi^hieent  look  about  the  little  parlor 
of  the  Red  Horse,  at  8tratford-on-Avon. 

Tlic  words  of  sweet  .Siiakspearc  were  just  passing  through 
my  mind  as  the  clock  struck  midnight  from  the  tower  of  the 
church  in  which  he  lies  buried.  There  was  a  gentle  tap  at  the 
(Lor,  and  a  pretty  chambermaid,  putting  in  her  smiling  face, 
inquired,  with  a  hesitating  air,  whether  1  had  rung.  I  under- 
stood it  as  a  modest  hint  that  it  was  time  to  retire.  My  dream 
of  :il)solute  dominion  was  at  an  eud  ;  so  abdicating  my  throne, 
like  r.  prudent  i)otentate,  to  avoid  being  deitosed,  and  putting 
die  Stratford  Guidc-lJook  under  my  arm,  as  a  pillow  companion, 
1  went  to  bed,  and  dreamt  all  night  of  Shakspeare,  the  Jubilee, 
aud  David  Garrick. 

Tlie  next  morning  was  one  of  those  quickening  mornings 
which  we  sometimes  have  in  early  sprmg,  for  it  was  about  the 
middle  of  March.  The  chills  of  a  long  winter  had  suddenly 
uiven  way;  the  north  wind  had  spent  its  last  gasp;  and  a  mild 
air  came  stealing  from  the  vest,  breathing  the  breath  of  life  into 
lature,  and  wooing  every  bud  and  llower  to  burst  forth  into  fra- 
grance and  beauty. 

I  had  come  to  Stratford  on  a  poetical  pilgrimage.  My  first 
visit  was  to  the  house  where  Shakspeare  was  born,  and  where, 
according  to  tradition,  he  was  brought  up  to  his  father's  craft 
of  wool-combing.  It  is  a  small,  mean-looking  edifice  of  wood 
and  plaster,  a  true  nestling-place  of  genius,  which  seems  to  de- 
light in  hatching  its  offspring  in  by-corners.  The  walls  of  its 
squalid  chambers  are  covered  with  names  and  inscriptions  in 
every  language,  by  pilgrims  of  all  nations,  ranks,  and  condi- 
tions, from  the  prince  to  the  peasant ;  and  i)resent  a  simi)le,  but 
striking  instance  of  the  spontaneous  and  universal  homage  of 
mankind  to  the  great  poet  cf  nature. 

The  house  is  shown  by  a  garrulous  old  lady,  in  a  frosty  red 
face,  lighted  up  by  a  cold  blue  anxious  eye.  and  garnished  with 
artificial  locks  of  fiaxen  hair,  curling  from  under  an  exceed- 
ingiy  dirty  caj).  She  was  peculiarlv  assiduous  in  cxhihitiug  the 
relics  with  which  this,  like  all  other  celebrated  shrines,  abounds. 
There  was  the  shattered  slock  of  the  very  matchlock  with  which 


m 


196 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


Shakspeare  shot  the  dec,  or  s  poaching  exploits.  Thoro, 
too,  was  his  tobacco-bo^;  whic':  proves  that  he  was  a  rival 
smoker  of  Sir  Walter  Rale  !  ■:  sword  also  with  which  he 
played  Hamlet ;  and  the  identijal  laLo  ,  ^  with  whicli  Friar  Law- 
rence discovered  Romeo  and  Juliet  at  iul  tomb  !  There  was  an 
ample  supply  also  of  Shakspeare's  mulberry-tree,  which  seems 
to  have  as  extraordinary  powers  of  self-multiplication  as  the 
wood  of  the  true  cross ;  ol  which  there;  is  enough  extant  to  build 
a  ship  of  the  line. 

The  most  favorite  object  of  curiosity,  however,  is  Shak- 
speare's chan-.  It  stands  in  the  chimney-nook  of  a  small 
gloomy  chamber,  just  behind  what  was  his  father's  shop. 
Here  he  may  many  a  time  have  sat  whon  a  boy,  watching  the 
slowly-revolving  spit,  with  all  the  longing  of  an  urchin ;  or  of 
an  evening,  listening  to  the  cronies  and  gossips  of  Stratford, 
dealing  forth  churchyard  tales  and  legendary  anecdotes  of  the 
troublesome  times  of  England.  In  this  chair  it  is  the  custom 
of  every  one  that  visits  the  house  to  sit :  whether  this  be  done 
with  the  hope  of  imbibing  any  of  the  inspiration  of  the  bard,  I 
am  at  a  loss  to  say  ;  I  merely  mention  the  fact ;  and  my  hostess 
privately  assured  me,  that,  though  built  of  solid  oak,  such  was 
the  fervent  zeal  of  devotees,  that  the  chair  had  to  be  new-bot- 
tomed at  least  once  in  three  years.  It  is  worthy  of  notice  also, 
in  the  history  of  this  extraordinary  chair,  that  it  partakes  some- 
thing of  the  volatile  nature  of  the  Santa  Casa  of  Loretto,  or 
the  flying  chair  of  the  Arabian  enclianter ;  for  though  sold 
some  few  years  since  to  a  northern  princess,  yet,  strange  to 
tell,  it  has  found  its  way  back  again  to  the  old  chimney-corner. 

I  am  always  of  easy  faith  in  such  matters,  and  am  ever  will- 
ing to  be  deceived,  where  the  deceit  is  pleasant  and  costs  notli- 
ing.  I  am  therefore  a  ready  believer  in  relics,  legends,  antl 
local  anecdotes  of  goblins  and  great  men  •,  and  would  advise  all 
travellers  who  travel  for  their  giatification  to  be  the  samp. 
"What  is  it  to  us  whether  these  stories  be  true  or  false  so  long 
as  we  can  persuade  ourselves  into  the  belief  of  tiiem,  and  enjoy 
all  the  charm  of  the  reality?  There  is  nothing  like  rcsoluto 
good-humored  credulity  in  these  matters ;  and  on  this  occiisioii 
1  went  even  so  far  as  willingly  to  believe  the  claims  of  mine 
hostess  to  a  lineal  descent  from  the  poet,  when,  luckily  for 
my  faith,  she  put  into  my  hands  a  play  of  her  own  composition, 
which  set  all  belief  in  her  consanguinity  at  defiance. 

From  the  birthplace  of  Shakspeare  a  few  paces  brought  rac 
to  his  grave.  He  lies  buried  in  the  chancel  of  the  parish  church, 
a  large  and  venerable  pile,  mouldering  with  age,  but  richly  oroa" 


tnented.    It 
point,  and 
(jf  the  towi 
murmuring 
grow  upon 
An  avenue 
laced,  so  ai 
up  from  th 
aieovergn 
nearly  sunl 
has  likewis 
built  their 
tviul  keep 
sailinp;  and 
In  tlie  c( 
ton  Edmoi 
church,    t 
years,  and 
the  trivial  < 
n  few  year 
ihe  Avon 
neatness, 
dwellings 
stone  rtoo 
hall.     Ro' 
dresser, 
the  family 
family  lib 
volumes, 
furniture, 
warming- 
handled  1 
was  wide 
jambs. 
a  pretty 
Buperaun 
Ange,  ar 
hood.     1 
together 
siping  a^ 
probablj 
is  not  ol 
evenly  £ 


STRA  TFORD-ON-A  VON. 


197 


fhoro, 
nval 
ch  he 
Law- 
i^as  an 
seems 
■as  the 
build 


*nented.  It  stands  on  the  banks  of  the  Avon,  on  an  embowered 
point,  and  separated  by  adjoining  gardens  from  the  suburbs 
of  the  town. .  Its  situation  is  quiet  and  retired :  the  river  runs 
murmuring  at  the  foot  of  the  churchyard,  and  the  elms  which 
grow  upon  its  banks  droop  their  branches  into  its  clear  bosom. 
An  avenue  of  limes,  the  boughs  of  which  are  curiously  inter- 
laced, so  as  to  form  in  summer  an  arched  way  of  foliage,  leads 
up  from  the  gate  of  the  yard  to  the  church  porch.  The  graves 
aie  overgrown  with  grass;  the  gray  tombstones,  some  of  them 
nearly  sunk  into  the  earth,  are  half-covered  with  moss,  which 
has  likewise  tinted  the  reverend  old  building.  Small  birds  have 
hiiilt  their  nests  among  the  cornices  and  fissures  of  the  walls, 
and  keep  up  a  continual  flutter  and  chirping ;  and  rooks  are 
sailinp;  and  cawing  about  its  lofty  gray  spire. 

In  the  course  of  my  rambles  1  met  with  the  gray-headed  sex- 
ton Edmonds,  and  accompanied  him  home  to  get  the  key  of  the 
church.  He  had  lived  in  Stratford,  man  and  boy,  for  eighty 
years,  and  seemed  still  to  consider  himself  a  vigorous  man,  with 
the  trivial  exception  that  he  had  nearly  lost  the  use  of  his  legs  for 
:\  few  years  past.  His  dwelling  was  a  cottage,  looking  out  upon 
(he  Avon  and  its  bordering  meadows;  and  was  a  picture  of  that 
neatness,  order,  and  comfort,  which  pervade  the  humblest 
dwellings  in  this  country.  A  low  white-washed  room,  with  a 
stone  floor,  carefully  scru!)bed,  served  for  parlor,  kitchen,  and 
hall.  Rows  of  pewter  and  earthen  dishes  glittered  along  the 
dresser.  On  an  old  oaken  table,  well  rubbed  and  polished,  lay 
the  family  Bible  and  prayer-book,  and  the  drawer  contained  the 
family  library,  composed  of  about  half  a  score  of  well-thumbed 
volumes.  An  ancient  clock,  that  important  article  of  cottage 
furniture,  ticked  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  room  ;  with  a  bright 
warming-pan  hanging  on  one  side  of  it,  and  the  old  man's  horn- 
handled  Sunday  cane  on  the  other.  The  fireplace,  as  usual, 
was  wide  and  deep  enough  to  admit  a  gossip  knot  within  its 
jambs.  In  one  corner  sat  the  old  man's  grand-daughter  sewing, 
a  pretty  blue-eyed  girl,  —  and  in  the  opposite  corner  was  a 
superannuated  crony,  whom  he  addressed  by  the  name  of  John 
Ange,  and  who,  I  found,  had  been  his  companion  from  child- 
hood. They  had  played  together  in  infancy ;  they  had  worked 
together  in  manhood  ;  they  were  now  tottering  about  and  gos- 
siping away  the  evening  of  life ;  and  in  a  short  time  they  will 
probably  be  buried  together  in  the  neighboring  churchyard.  It 
is  not  often  that  we  see  two  streams  of  existence  running  thus 
evenly  and  tranquilly  side  by  side ;  it  is  only  in  such  quiet 
*'■  Ujsom  scenes  "  of  life  that  they  are  to  be  met  with. 


P 


\l 


m 


■J:'-^ 


198 


THE  RKETCn-BOOK. 


I        i 


I  had  hoped  to  gather  some  traditionary  anecdotes  of  the 
hard  from  these  ancient  chroniclers  ;  but  tliey  had  nothing  new 
to  impart.  The  long  interval,  during  which  Shakspeare's  writ- 
ings  lay  in  comparative  neglect,  has  spread  its  shadow  over  his- 
tory;  and  it  is  his  good  or  evil  lot,  that  scarcely  any  thing 
remains  to  his  biographers  but  a  scanty  handful  of  conjectures. 

The  sexton  and  liis  companion  had  been  employed  as  carpen- 
ters, on  the  preparations  for  the  celebrated  Stratford  jubilee 
and  they  remembered  Garrick,  the  prime  mover  of  the  fete,  who 
superintended  the  arrangements,  and  who,  according  to  the  sex- 
ton, was  "  a  short  punch  man,  very  lively  and  bustling."  .lolm 
Ange  had  assisted  also  in  cutting  down  Shakspeare's  nuilbcnv- 
tree,  of  which  he  had  a  morsel  in  his  pocket  for  sale ;  no  doiihi 
a  sovereign  quickener  of  literary  conception. 

1  was  grieved  to  hear  these  two  worthy  wights  speak  very 
dubiously  of  the  eloquent  dame  who  shows  the  Shakspeaiv 
house.  John  Ange  shook  his  head  when  I  mentioned  her  val- 
uable collection  of  relics,  particularly  her  remains  of  the  mul' 
berry-tree;  and  the  old  sexton  even  expressed  a  doubt  as  to 
ShaUspeare  having  been  born  in  her  house.  I  soon  discov- 
ered that  he  looked  upon  her  mansion  with  an  evil  eye, 
!is  a  rival  to  the  poet's  tomb;  the  latter  having  compara- 
tively but  few  visitors.  Thus  it  is  that  historians  differ  at  the 
very  outset,  and  mere  i)ebbli's  make  the  stream  of  truth  diverge 
into  dift'erent  clianiiels,  even  at  the  fountain-head. 

We  approached  the  church  through  the  avenue  of  limes,  and 
entered  by  a  Gothic  porch,  highly  ornamented  with  carved  doors 
of  massive  oak.  The  interior  is  spacious,  and  the  architecture 
and  embellishments  superior  to  those  of  most  country  churches. 
There  are  several  ancient  monuments  of  nobility  and  gentry, 
over  some  of  which  hang  funeral  escutcheons,  and  banners 
dropping  piecemeal  from  the  walls.  The  tomb  of  Shakspeare  is 
in  the  chancel.  The  place  is  solemn  and  sepulchral.  Tall  elms 
wave  before  the  pointed  windows,  and  the  Avon,  which  runs  at 
a  short  distance  from  the  walls,  keeps  up  a  low  perpetual  murmur. 
A  tiat  stone  marks  the  spot  where  the  bard  is  buried.  There  are 
four  lines  inscribed  on  it,  said  to  have  been  written  by  himself, 
and  which  have  in  them  something  extremely  awful.  If  they 
are  indeed  his  own,  they  show  that  solicitude  about  the  quiet  of 
the  grave,  which  seems  natural  to  fine  sensibilities  and  thouglit- 
ful  uiiuds : 

Good  friend,  for  JeMis'  siike,  forbeare 
To  dig  ihc  dual  inclOBfd  here. 
RICRBcd  be  be  thnt  gpares  thrie  xtonM, 
And  Gursl  b«  h«  Uutt  moTeti  my  bones. 


! 


h\ 


l:  ^' 


THE    CHANCEL,    STRATFORD    CHURCH. 


^■Ji| 


I  1 


m 


Just  ovor 
Bpcaro,  put 
gouihlaiu'O. 
arclu'il  fovel 
cations  of 
jis  much   cl 
vasiness  of 
tlio  time  of 
for  tlio  woi 
iroiii  the  p;« 
fioin  tlu'  8t( 
shine  of  po| 
The  inHC 
effect.     It 
bosom  of  1 
at  one  tiiu' 
lal)orei3  w* 
cavi'tl  ill,  f 
thi'ouiili  wl 
oms  iiowev 
giianleil  hy 
()ii9,  or  an 
deprediitio: 
days,  uutil 
Ih>  tohl  n 
couhl  SCO 
8omothin<>; 
Next  to 
ter  Mi's.  1 
also,  is  a 
usurious  1 
crous  epit 
mind  refu 
Shalvspea 
uecins  but 
and  thwa 
otiicr  true 
ble  evidei 
pavenieiii 
idea,   thr 
mouUlerii 
coidd  pre 
through 
yew-tree: 


S  Tli  AT  FOR  T)-0  N-A  VON. 


199 


Just  ovor  the  i^^rav^,  in  a  nioho  of  tho  wall,  is  a  bust  of  Shak- 
gpcaro,  put  lip  sliortly  after  his  tleatli,  and  considered  as  a  re- 
soiiililance.  The  asix'ct  is  ph-aaaiit  and  serene,  wit  I:  a  finely 
nn'lu'd  forehead;  and  I  Miouiiht  I  could  read  in  it  clear  indi- 
cations of  that  cheerful,  social  disi»<wition,  liy  vvliich  he  was 
as  much  characterized  among  his  contemporaries  as  by  the 
vasincss  of  his  genius.  Tiie  inscrii)lion  mentions  liis  age  at 
tho  time  of  his  dcceaae — fifty-three  years  ;  an  untimely  death 
for  tlie  world:  for  what  fruit  might  not  liave  been  ex})eeted 
tiom  the  golden  autumn  of  such  a  mind,  sheltered  as  it  was 
from  the  stormy  vicissitudes  of  life,  and  flourishing  in  the  sua- 
sliine  of  popular  and  royal  favor  ! 

Tlie  inscription  on  the  tombstone  has  not  been  without  its 
effect.  It  liaH  prevented  the  removal  of  his  remains  from  the 
bosom  of  ills  native;  place  to  Westminster  Abbey,  which  v/as 
iit  one  time  contemplated.  A  few  years  since  also,  as  some 
lalMticis  were  digging  to  make  an  a<ijoiiiiiig  vault,  the  earth 
caved  in,  so  as  to  leave  a  vacant  space  almost  like  an  arch, 
tliroiigli  vvhich  one  might  have  reached  into  his  grave.  No 
one,  iiowever,  presumed  lo  meddle  witli  the  remains  so  awfully 
giianled  by  a  malediction,  and  lest  any  of  the  idle  or  the  curi- 
ous, or  any  collector  of  relics,  should  be  t<'mpted  to  commit 
depredations,  the  old  sexton  kept  watch  over  the  place  ior  two 
days,  Uiitil  the  vault  was  finished,  and  the  aperture  closed  again. 
He  told  UK!  that  he  had  made  bold  to  look  in  at  tho  hole,  but 
could  see  neither  collln  nor  bones ;  nothing  but  dust.  It  was 
something,  I  thought,  to  have  seen  the  dust  of  Shakspeare. 

Next  to  this  grave  are  lh(,se  of  'is  wife,  his  favorite  daugh- 
ter Mrs.  Ilall,  a'ld  oIIkms  of  his  fi-.-jiily.  On  a  tomb  close  by, 
also,  is  a  full-length  I'fligy  of  his  old  friend  John  Combe,  of 
usurious  memoiy  ;  on  whom  he  is  said  to  have  written  a  ludi- 
crous epitaph.  There  are  other  monuments  around,  but  the 
mind  refuses  to  dwell  on  any  thing  that  is  not  connected  with 
Shakspeare.  His  idea  pervades  Llie  place  —  the  whole  pile 
seems  i)ut  as  his  mausoleum.  The  feelings,  no  longer  checked 
and  thwarted  by  doubt,  here  indulge  in  perfect  confidence: 
otlii  r  traces  of  him  may  be  false  or  dubious,  but  here  is  palpa- 
ble evidence  and  absolute  certainty.  As  I  trod  the  sounding 
pavement,  there  was  something  intense  and  thrilling  in  the 
idea,  that,  in  very  truth,  the  remains  of  Shakspeare  were 
mouldering  beneath  niy  feet.  It  was  a  long  time  before  I 
could  prevail  upon  myself  to  leave  the  place ;  and  as  I  passed 
tbrough  the  churchyard,  I  plucked  a  branch  from  one  of  the 
yew-trees,  the  only  relic  that  1  have  brought  from  Stratford. 


n 


Ji.'M 


'**-J^-%\    t^M  — 


200 


TBB  SKETCH-BOOK. 


ft 


\yn 


*!    Ill' 


'■i 


t  ■' 


I  had  now  visited  the  usual  objects  of  a  pilgrim's  devotion, 
but  I  had  a  desire  to  see  the  old  family  seat  of  the  Lucys  at 
Charlecot,  and  to  ramble  through  the  park  where  Shakspcare, 
in  company  with  some  of  tlie  roysters  of  Stratford,  committed 
his  youthful  offence  of  deer-stealing.  In  this  b  irelirainod  ex- 
ploit we  are  told  that  he  was  taken  prisoner,  and  carried  to 
the  keeper's  lodge,  where  he  remained  all  night  in  doleful  cap- 
tivity.  When  brought  into  the  presence  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy, 
his  treatment  must  have  been  galling  .",nd  humiliating ;  for  it 
so  wrought  upon  his  spirit  as  to  produce  a  rough  pasquinade, 
which  was  affixed  to  \,he  parlc  gate  at  Charlecot.^ 

This  flagitious  attack  upon  the  dignity  of  the  Knight  so  in- 
censed him,  that  he  applied  to  a  lawyer  at  Warwick  to  put  the 
severity  of  the  laws  in  force  against  the  rhyming  doer-stalker. 
Shakspeare  did  not  wait  to  brave  the  united  puissance  of  a 
Knight  of  the  Shire  and  a  country  attorney.  He  forthwith 
abandoned  the  pleasant  banks  of  the  Avon,  and  his  paternal 
trade;  wandered  r.way  to  London  ;  became  a  hanger-on  to  the 
thefitres  ;  then  an  actor  ;  and,  finally,  wrote  for  the  stage  ;  and 
thus,  through  the  persecution  of  Sir  Thomas  Lucy,  iratfoid 
lost  an  indifferent  wool-r-ombcr.  and  tiu;  world  gained  an  im- 
mortal poet.  He  rctaiiu'd,  however,  for  a  long  time,  a  sense  of 
the  luirsh  treatment  of  the  Lord  of  Charlecot,  and  revenged 
himself  in  his  writings ;  but  in  the  sportive  way  of  a  good- 
natured  mind.  Sir  Thomas  is  said  to  be  the  original  Justice 
Shallow,  and  the  satire  is  slyly  fixed  upon  him  by  the  .Tnstico's 
armorial  bearings,  whicli,  like  those  of  the  Kniglit,  had  wliilo 
luces'^  in  the  quarterings. 

Various  attempts  have  been  made  by  his  biographers  to 
"Often  and  explain  away  this  early  transgression  of  the  poet; 
but  I  look  upon  it  as  one  of  those  tlioughtless  exploits  natural 
to  his  situation  and  turn  of  mind.  Shakspeare,  when  young, 
had  doubtless  all  the  wildness  and  irregularity  of  an  ardent, 
undisciplined,  and  undirected  genius.  The  poetic  temperament 
has  naturally  something  in  it  of  the  vaga])ond.     When  left  to 

*  The  foUowiug  is  the  only  stanza  extant  of  this  lampooa : 

A  parllaraont  member,  a  juHtlcc  of  iioace, 
At  home  a  poor  Bcaretrow,  at  London  an  assa, 
If  lowsie  is  Lncy,  an  some  vollte  miHcallo  it, 
Then  Lucy  is  loweie,  whatever  befall  It, 

He  thinks  himself  great; 

Yet,  an  asse  in  his  sUite, 
We  allow  by  his  ears  but  with  asses  to  mnf«. 
If  Lucy  is  lowsie,  as  some  voilie  iniBcalle  it, 
Then  sing  lowsie  Lucy,  whatever  befall  it. 

*  The  luce  U  a  pike  or  jack,  and  iibuundu  in  the  Avou,  about  Charlecot. 


itself,  it  rn 
eccentric  ai 
ganililing  f 
out  a  groat 
niind  fortu 
iiijTly  trans 

\  have 
ynbroken  ( 
bo  found 
characterf 
place,  and 
whom  old 
one  day  c 
Thomas  L 
Knij^ht,  ai 
as  somcth 
The  old 
remain  in 
interesting 
fill  circun 
house  st(){ 
ford,  I  vci 
leisurely  t 
must  hav^ 
The  coi 
is  always 


1  A  proo: 
be  found  in 
nieiiUonod  li 

Ai)OUt    BC 

famnuH  for 
aiiprlliUion 
ni'itihlioring 
ford  were 
of  lite  chai 
drink  beer 
chivalry  of 
they  hail  J 
when,  their 
they  passci 
tree. 

In    the 
Bedford,  b' 


"The  ' 
'horn  :  the 

lliUboroui 
IHiverly  ol 


m 


m 


STRATFOBD-ON-A  VOK. 


201 


iO   111. 

t  the 
tilker. 

of  a 

Invith 

ernal 

o  the 

find 
tford 


Itself,  it  runs  loosely  and  wildly,  and  delights  in  every  thing 
eccentric  Jiud  licentious.  It  is  often  a  turn-up  of  a  die,  in  the 
gambling  freaks  of  fate,  whether  a  natural  genius  shall  turn 
out  a  great  rogue  or  a  great  poet ;  and  had  not  Shakspeare's 
mind  fortunately  taken  a  literary'  bias,  he  might  have  as  dar- 
ingly transcended  all  civil,  as  he  has  all  dramatic  laws. 

I  have  little  doubt,  that,  in  early  life,  when  running,  like  an 
unbroken  colt,  about  the  neighborhood  of  Stratford,  he  was  to 
be  found  in  the  company  of  all  kinds  of  odd  and  anomalous 
characters ;  that  he  associated  with  all  the  madcaps  of  the 
place,  and  was  one  of  those  unlucky  urchins,  at  mention  of 
whom  old  men  shake  their  heads,  and  predict  that  they  will 
one  day  come  to  the  gallows.  To  him  the  poaching  in  Sir 
Thomas  Lucy's  park  was  doubtless  like  a  foray  to  a  Scottish 
Knight,  and  struck  his  eager,  and  as  yet  untamed,  imagination, 
as  something  delightfully  adventurous.* 

The  old  mansion  of  Charlecot  and  its  surrounding  park  still 
remain  in  the  possession  of  the  Lucy  family,  and  are  peculiarly 
interesting  from  being  connected  with  this  whimsical  but  event- 
fill  circumstance  in  the  scanty  historj^  of  the  bard.  As  the 
house  stood  but  little  more  than  three  miles'  distance  from  Strat- 
ford, I  resolved  to  pay  it  a  pedestrian  visit,  that  I  might  jtroll 
leisurely  through  some  of  those  scenes  from  which  Sliak&peare 
must  have  derived  his  earliest  ideas  of  rural  imagery. 

The  country  was  yet  naked  and  leafless  ;  but  English  scenery 
is  always  verdant,  and  the  sudden  change  in  the  temperature 

'  A  proof  of  SliakspcarcV  random  habits  and  aFsociatos  in  his  youthful  days  may 
be  found  in  a  traditionary  anecdote,  picked  up'at  (Stratford  by  the  eider  Jrelaud,  atid 
mtntiotied  in  his  "  I'iulurcgque  Views  on  the  Avou," 

Al)()ut  sevc'ii  miles  from  .Stratford  lies  the  thirsty  little  market  town  of  Bedford, 
famnuH  for  its  ale.  Two  sociotieH  of  the  village  yeomanry  used  to  meet,  under  the 
appcllalion  of  the  Bedford  topers,  and  to  oiiaileuKe  the  lovers  of  good  ale  of  the 
iioinhlioring  villages,  to  a  contest  of  drinking.  Among  others,  the  people  of  Strat- 
foul  wore  called  out  to  prove  the  strength  of  their  heads;  and  in  the  number 
of  the  champions  wa.i  Shaknpeare,  who,  in  spite  of  the  proverb,  that  "they  who 
diink  beer  will  think  beer,"  was  as  true  to  his  ale  as  Kalstaff  to  his  sack.  The 
chivalry  of  tilralfoid  was  staegereil  at  the  first  onset,  and  sounded  a  retreat  while 
they  had  yet  legs  lo  carry  them  off  the  field.  They  had  scarcely  marched  a  mile, 
when,  their  legs  failing  them,  ihey  were  forced  to  lie  down  under  a  crab-tree,  where 
thoy  passt^d  the  night.  It  is  still  standing,  and  goes  by  the  name  of  Shakspeare's 
irce. 

In  the  morning  his  companions  awaked  the  bard,  and  proposed  returning  to 
Dedturd,  but  he  declineil,  saying  he  had  had  enough,  having  drunk  with 

Piping  I'ebworth,  Dancing  Marston, 
Haunted  Ililbro',  Ilunirry  Orafton, 
Dudgiiig  Kxliali,  Tapist  Wiuksford, 
Beggarly  Broom,  and  drunken  Bedford. 

"The  villngos  here  alluded  to,"  says  Ireland,  "  still  bear  the  epithets  thus  given 
(hem-  the  people  of  I'ehworth  are  still  famed  for  their  skill  on  the  pipe  and  tabor; 
IlilllHiioiigh  is  now  utUud  Uauuled  ilillborough ;  and  Uiafton  is  famous  for  tha 
poverty  of  itrt  soil." 


1/ 


;> 


l<. 


202 


TEE  SKETCn-BOOK, 


\  ,. 


\  .m 


of  the  weather  was  surprising  in  its  quickening  effects  upon 
the  landscape.  It  was  inspiring  and  animating  to  witness  tliia 
first  awakening  of  spring;  to  feel  its  warm  breath  stealina 
over  tlie  senses ;  to  see  the  moist  mellow  earth  beginning  to 
put  forth  the  green  sprout  and  the  tender  blade  ;  and  the  trees 
and  shrubs,  and  their  reviving  tints  and  bursting  buds,  giving 
the  promise  of  returning  foliage  and  flower.  The  cold  snow. 
drop,  ^hixx  little  borderer  on  the  skirts  of  winter,  was  to  be 
seen  with  its  chaste  white  blossoms  in  the  small  gardens  before 
the  cottages  The  bleating  of  the  new-dropt  lambs  was  faintly 
beard  from  the  fields.  The  sparrow  twittered  about  the 
thatched  eaves  and  budding  hedges  ;  tiie  robin  threw  a  livelier 
note  into  his  late  querulous  wintry  strain  ;  and  the  lark,  spring. 
ing  up  from  the  reeking  bosom  of  the  meadow,  towered  away 
into  the  bright  fleecy  cloud,  pouring  forth  torrents  of  melody. 
As  I  watched  the  little  songster,  mounting  up  higlier  and 
higher,  until  his  body  was  a  mere  si)cck  on  the  white  bosom 
of  the  cioud,  while  the  ear  was  still  filled  with  his  music,  it 
called  to  mind  Shakspeare's  exquisite  little  song  in  Cymbeline: 

Hark !  hark  I  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  singSt 

And  Phtel)U8  'gins  aribo, 
His  steeds  to  water  ot  those  springs, 

Ou  cballced  flowci^s  that  lies. 

And  winking  marybuds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes; 
With  every  thlnp  (hat  pretty  bin, 

My  lady  swec I,  arise! 

Indeed,  the  whole  country  about  here  is  poetic  ground :  every 
thing  is  associated  with  the  idea  of  Shakspeare.  Every  old 
cottage  tliat  I  saw,  1  fancied  into  some  resoit  of  his  boyhootl, 
where  he  had  acquired  liis  intimate  knowledge  of  vustic  life  aiKl 
manners,  and  heard  those  legendary  tales  and  wild  superstitiond 
which  he  has  woven  like  witchcraft  into  his  di'amas.  For  io 
his  time,  we  are  tol<l,  it  was  a  jjopuhir  amuseintMit  in  wiiitei 
evenings  "  to  sit  round  the  fire,  jind  tell  merry  tnles  of  errant 
knights,  queens,  lovers,  lords,  ladies,  giants,  dwarfs,  thieves, 
cheaters,  witches,  fairies,  goi)lins,  and  friars."  * 

'  Scot,  in  hi?  "  DiHcoverie  of  Witchcraft,"  eiinrnorates  a  IiokI  of  thiMo  (ircMido 
fancies.  "And  they  have  so  fruid  iih  «ltli  liiilll)ci;L;!ii'H,  K|)irilrt,  wiicli"",  iji-liim, 
elves,  hagB,  fairiuM,  mityrs,  pan  ,  fiuincH,  MyreiiM,  kit  with  the  car  Hliclic,  liilniiH,  rcn- 
laurs,  dwarfes,  giunles,  imps,  uulcars,  conjurcrti,  iiyinphes,  cliuii»!eliii|{H,  iiicuijiin, 
Kobingood-fcllow,  the spoorno, the  mare,  the  tnan  in  the  uku,  the  hultwaiiic,  tlie  lU^f 
drake,  the  r>»(=l<lpi  'Yova  Thomoe,  hobKobllus,  Tom  Tumbler,  boueleM,  and  such  utlioi 
bugs,  that  we  weru  ufrold  of  our  own  shudowos." 


My  route 
^vhich  mad( 
iugg  throu: 
fiom  anion 
•ippeariug 
tiiiit'S  vamb 
louud  a  slo 
is  called  th 
ing  blue  hil 
vening  Ian 
of  tlie  Avo 
After  pu 
into  a  foot 
lu'dge-rowt 
however,  f 
rip;ht  of  w; 
estates,  in 
far  as  the 
ciles  a  po« 
of  his  neig 
open  for  1 
aiuUoils  a 
and  it  ho 
own,  he  h: 
and  keepii 
I  now  f 
whose  va 
sounded  £ 
flora  then 
llirough  1 
view  V)i'<- 
shallow  ai 
There  i 
the  ol't'ect 
siiniUirit;y 
(Uiralion, 
with  whi 
lii'loken  I 
independ 
hut  arist 
luoiis  pa 
with  stoi 
tiling;  as 
It  wa£ 


BTRA  TFORD-ON~A  VON, 


203 


"pon 

5  this 
ealiiig 
'I'g  to 

trees 
giving 
snow- 
to  be 
X'fore 
.lintly 
the 
velier 


My  route  for  a  part  of  the  way  luy  iu  sight  of  the  Avon, 
svhich  made  a  variety  of  the  most  fanciful  doublings  and  wind- 
iu<'3  through  a  wide  and  fertile  valley  :  sometimes  glittering 
fioni  among  willows,  which  fringed  its  borders  ;  sometimes  dis- 
•ippeariug  among  groves,  or  beneath  green  banks  ;  and  some- 
tiint'S  rambling  out  into  full  view,  and  making  an  azure  8wee[v 
iouud  a  slope  of  meadow  land.  This  beautiful  bosom  of  country 
is  called  the  Vale  o'  the  Red  Horse.  A  distant  line  of  undiilai- 
ing  blue  hills  seems  to  be  its  boundary,  whilst  all  the  soft  inter- 
vening landscape  lies  in  a  manner  enchained  in  the  silver  links 
of  tlie  Avon. 

After  pursuing  the  road  for  about  three  miles,  I  turned  off 
into  a  foot-i)ath,  which  led  along  the  borders  of  fields  and  under 
judge-rows  to  a  private  gate  of  the  park ;  there  was  a  stile, 
however,  for  the  benelit  of  the  pedestrian;  there  being  a  publio 
ri^ht  of  way  tiirough  the  grounds.  1  delight  in  these  hospitable 
estates,  in  which  every  one  has  a  kind  of  property — at  least  as 
far  fiS  the  foot-path  is  concerned.  It  in  some  measure  n-con- 
ciles  a  poor  man  to  his  lot,  and  what  is  more,  to  the  better  lot, 
of  his  neighbor,  thus  to  have  parks  and  pleasure-grounds  thrown 
open  for  his  recreation.  He  breatlies  the  pure  air  as  freely, 
and  loils  as  luxuriously  under  the  shade,  as  the  lord  of  the  soil ; 
and  if  he  lias  not  the  privilege  of  calling  all  that  he  sees  his 
own,  he  has  not,  at  the  same  tiuie,  the  trouble  of  paying  for  it, 
and  keeping  it  in  order. 

1  now  found  myself  among  noble  avenues  of  oaks  and  elms, 
whose  vast  size  bespoke  tlie  gnjwth  of  centuries.  The  wind 
sounded  solennily  among  their  branches,  and  the  rooks  cawed 
from  the'r  hereditary  nests  in  the  tree-tops.  The  eye  ranged 
through  a  long  lessening  vista,  with  nothing  to  interrupt  the 
view  V)i'<"  a  distant  statue  ;  and  a  vagrant  deer  stalking  like  a 
shallow  across  the  opening. 

There  is  something  about  these  stately  old  avenues  that  has 
the  effect  of  (iothic  architecture,  not  merely  from  the  pretended 
similarity  of  form,  but  from  tlu-ir  bearing  tlie  evidence  of  long 
(hnalion,  and  of  having  hud  their  origin  in  a  period  of  time 
with  which  we  associate  ideas  of  romantic  grandeur.  They 
iK'token  also  the  long-settled  dignity,  and  proudly  concentrated 
in(le|)endence  of  an  ancient  family;  and  I  have  heard  a  worthy 
but  aristocratic  old  friend  oI)serve,  when  speaking  of  the  snnip- 
tnous  palactis  of  modern  gentry,  that  "  money  could  do  nmch 
with  stone  and  mortar,  but,  thank  Heaven,  there  vv'as  no  suclj 
tiling  as  suddenly  bniUling  up  an  avenue  of  oaks." 

It  was  from  wandering  "a  early  life  among  this  rich  scencryi 


1^       1)! 


!T 


IH 


204 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


¥m  ^ 


I  ;  ' 


and  about  the  romantic  solitudes  of  the  adjoining  park  of  Full 
broke,  which  then  formed  a  part  of  the  Lucy  estate,  that  sorro 
of  Shakspeare's  commentators  have  supposed  he  derived  his 
noble  forest  meditations  of  Jaques,  and  the  enchanting  wood- 
land pictures  in  "As  you  like  it."  It  is  in  lonely  vvauderintra 
through  such  scenes,  that  the  mind  drinks  deep  but  quiet 
draughts  of  inspiration,  and  becomes  intensely  sensible  of  the 
beauty  and  majesty  of  nature.  The  imagination  kindles  into 
reverie  and  rapture  ;  vague  but  exquisite  images  and  ideas  keep 
breaking  upon  it ;  and  we  revel  in  a  mute  and  almost  incom- 
municable luxury  of  thought.  It  was  in  some  such  mood,  and 
perhaps  under  one  of  those  very  trees  before  me,  which  threw 
their  broad  shades  over  the  grassy  banks  and  quivering  waters 
of  the  Avon,  that  the  poet's  fancy  ma}'  have  sallied  forth  into 
that  little  song  which  breathes  the  very  soul  of  a  rural  volup- 
tuary: 

Under  the  green-wood  tree. 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me. 

And  tune  hie  raerry  throat 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  note, 

Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  k!lher. 

Here  tihall  he  see 

No  enemy 
But  winter  Aud  rough  wea'Uer. 

I  had  now  come  in  sight  of  the  house.  It  is  a  large  building 
of  brick,  with  stone  quoins,  and  is  iu  the  Gothic  style  of  Queen 
Elizabeth's  day,  having  been  built  in  the  first  year  of  her  reign. 
The  exterior  remains  very  nearly  in  its  original  state,  and  may 
be  considered  a  fair  specimen  of  the  residence  of  a  wealthy 
country  gentleman  of  those  days.  A  great  gateway  opens  from 
the  park  into  a  kind  of  court-yard  in  front  of  the  house,  oriia- 
raented  with  a  grass-plot,  shrubs,  and  flower-beds.  The  gate- 
way is  in  imitation  of  the  ancient  barbican  ;  being  a  kind  of 
iii2*r  o?t,  and  flanked  by  towers ;  though  evidently  for  mere  or- 
nameLt,  Ir^re  .d  of  defence.  The  front  of  the  house  is  conv 
pletely  in  the  old  style ;  with  stone  shafted  casements,  a  groat 
bow-w'.'idow  of  heavy  stonework,  and  a  portal  with  armorial 
bearings  ovc  i^  carved  in  stone.  At  each  corner  of  the  build- 
ing is  .0  i  oL'ig.  u  x)wcr,  suriiiounled  by  a  gilt  ball  and  v/eather- 
cock, 

Thi.*  -V.-».in,  which  winds  through  the  park,  makes  a  bend  just 
at  the  foo*^^  of  .*  .re  •  h'  sloping  bank,  which  sweeps  down  from 
the  rear  iJ.  the  i"  jusc.  Large  herds  of  deer  were  feeding  or 
reposing  upon  itr  uorders  ;  aud  swous  were  sailing  majestica.'lv 


upon  its  be 
I  called  t 
abode,  anc 
latter : 

"  ,'JUalloio, 
ftir." 

Whatev 
in  the  daj 

:,oliludc. 

v<ir,1  was 

tiio  place 

longer  ha; 

sign  of  d( 

with  wary 

3ome  ncfi 

carcass  o 

t'lo  baru  v 

ftDhorrenc 

territorial 

case  of  tl 

After  1 

way  to  a 

the   mail! 

housekee] 

her  order 

part  has 

tastes  an( 

and  the 

house,  st 

in  the  da 

and  at  o: 

weapons 

the  hall 

portraits 

an  a  in  pi 

of  wintei 

Gothic  1 

the  com 

nnnorial 

some  be 

qiiarteri 

Thomas 


1 


STRA  TFORD-ON-A  VON. 


205 


Full 
sorro 
|fccl  his 

wood- 
leringa 
quiet 
|of  the 
is  into 
|s  Ivcep 
inoora- 
|f^  and 
threw 
Iwatera 
Jli  into 
vol  up. 


upon  its  bosom.  As  I  contemplated  the  venerable  old  mansion, 
I  called  to  mind  Falstaff's  encomium  on  Justice  Shallow's 
abode,  and  the   affected   indifference   and   real  vanity  of   the 

latter : 

"  Fnlxtaf.    You  have  a  goodly  dwelling  and  a  rich. 

"  ,'SUaUnw.    Barreu,  barren,  barren ;  beggars  all,  beggars  all.  Sir  John :  —  aai ry,  good 


Whatever  may  have  been  the  joviality  of  the  old  mansion 
in  the  days  of  Shakspeare,  it  had  now  an  air  of  stillness  and 
Aolilude.  The  great  iron  gatewaj'  that  o[)cncd  into  the  court- 
\-n,n]  was  locked ;  there  was  no  show  of  servants  bustling  about 
tiic  place ;  the  deer  gazed  quietly  at  me  as  I  passed,  being  no 
longer  harried  by  tlie  moss-troopers  of  Stratford.  The  only 
sign  of  domestic  life  that  I  met  with  was  a  white  cat,  stealing 
with  wary  look  and  stealthy  pace  towards  the  stables,  as  if  on 
gome  nefarious  expedition.  I  must  not  omit  to  mention  the 
(•aicass  of  a  scoundrel  crow  which  1  saw  suspended  against 
t'lo  barii  wall,  as  it  shows  that  the  Lucys  still  inherit  that  lordly 
abhorrence  of  poachers,  and  maintain  that  rigorous  exercise  of 
territorial  i)ower  which  was  so  strenuously  manifested  in  the 
case  of  the  bard. 

After  prowling  about  for  some  time,  I  at  length  found  my 
way  to  a  lateral  portal,  which  was  the  evcry-day  entrance  to 
the  mansion.  I  was  courteously  received  by  a  worthy  old 
hotisokeej)er,  who,  with  the  civility'  and  communicativeness  of 
her  order,  showed  me  the  interior  of  the  house.  The  greater 
part  has  undergone  alterations,  and  been  adapted  to  modern 
tastes  and  modes  of  living  :  there  is  a  fine  old  oaken  staircase  ; 
and  the  great  hall,  that  noble  feature  in  an  ancient  manor- 
house,  still  retains  mucii  of  the  jiiipearance  it  must  have  had 
in  the  days  of  Shakspeare.  The  ceiling  is  arched  and  lofty  ; 
and  at  one  end  is  a  gallery',  in  which  stands  an  organ.  The 
weapons  and  trophies  of  the  chase,  which  formerly  adorned 
the  hall  of  a  country  gentleman,  have  made  way  for  family 
poriraits.  There  is  a  wide  hospitable  fireplace,  calculated  for 
an  ample  old-fashioned  wood  fire,  formerly  the  rallying  place 
of  winter  festivity.  On  the  opposite  side  of  the  hall  is  tlie  huge 
Gotiiic  bow-window,  with  stone  shafts,  which  looks  out  upon 
the  court-yard.  Here  are  emblazoned  in  stained  glass  the 
annorial  bearings  of  the  Lucy  family  for  many  generations, 
some  l)eing  dated  in  1.558.  I  was  delighted  to  observe  in  the 
qii!uterings  the  three  white  luces  by  which  the  character  of  Sir 
Thomas  was  first  ideutilied  with  tiiut  of  Justice  Shallow.     They 


:M' 


i;  ■ 


n  }  IM 


i'i  I 


!      il 


^SSSXVfVfi^^^VtBVMWvaiMnacrimwMXfitfi  ji«ji«HHm^  '>«'-. 


206 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


are  mentioned  in  the  first  scent  of  the  Merry  Wives  of  Wind- 
sor,  where  the  Justice  is  in  a  rage  with  Falstaff  for  having 
"beaten  his  men,  killed  his  deer,  and  broken  into  his  lodge." 
The  poet  had  no  doubt  the  offences  of  himself  and  his  comrades 
in  mind  at  the  time,  and  we  may  suppose  the  family  prido  and 
vindictive  threats  of  the  puissant  Shallow  to  be  a  caricature  of 
the  pompous  indignation  of  Sir  Thomas. 

••  Shallow.  Sir  Hugh,  persnade  me  not :  I  will  mako  a  SUr-Chamber  matter  of  it;  fc 
Ue  wcra  twenty  Johu  Falstaffo,  bo  shall  not  abiiHO  Sir  Robert  Shallow,  E«q. 

"  ^Slender.    lu  iho  county  of  Glostci.  justice  of  peace,  and  coram. 

"  Shallow.    Ay,  cousin  Slcmler,  and  cuntalonim. 

"Slender.  Ay,  and  rataloruni  too,  and  a  gonllcman  born,  master  parnon;  who 
^  rites  blmaelf  Armigero  ia  any  bill,  warrant,  quittance,  or  obllsjation,  Armigero. 

"  Shallow,    Ay,  that  I  do;  and  have  done  any  time  these  three  hundred  years. 

"  Slender.  All  his  gucccaBora  gone  before  him  have  done  't,  aud  al!  Lis  ancesiori  iliai 
come  after  him  may  :  they  May  give  the  dozen  white  luces  in  their  coa' 

"  Shallow.    The  council  ahal'  hear  it;  it  is  a  riot. 

"  EvanB.  It  is  not  meet  the  council  hear  of  a  riot;  there  is  no  fear  of  Oot  in  a  riot: 
the  council,  hear  you,  shall  deaire  to  hear  the  fear  of  Oot,  and  not  to  hear  a  riot;  talie 
your  vizameuta  in  that. 

"  Shallow.    Hal  o'  my  life,  if  I  were  young  again,  the  sword  should  end  it!  " 

Near  the  window  tlius  emblazoned  hung  a  portrait  by  Sir 
Peter  Lely  of  one  of  the  iuey  family,  a  great  beauty  of  tlic 
time  of  Charles  the  Second  :  the  old  housekeeper  shook  hc-r 
head  as  she  pointed  to  the  picture,  and  informed  me  that  this 
lady  had  been  sadly  addicted  to  cards,  and  iiad  gambled  away 
a  great  portion  ot  tlio.  family  estate,  among  whicli  was  that 
part  of  the  park  where  ohakspeare  and  his  comrades  had  killed 
the  deer.  The  land.s  ♦^hus  iost  had  not  been  entirely  regained 
by  the  family,  e/on  .it  the  viesent  day.  It  is  but  justice  to 
this  recreant  dame  to  coofesh  Ihai  she  had  a  surjiassingly  line 
hand  and  arm. 

The  picture  which  iroi.t  attracted  my  attention  was  a  great 
painting  over  the  fire.)!.Me,  containing  likenesses  of  Sir 
Thomas  Luc}'  and  his  f:  n.ly,  wIm  inhabited  Mic  hall  in  the 
latter  part  of  Sb.akspeare  lifetime.  I  at  first  thought  that  ii 
ivas  ^he  vindicti'C  knight  1  :'npelf.  but  the  housekeep<>r  assured 
me  tuat  it  way  bis  son  ;  the  only  likeness  extam,  of  the  former 
being  an  effi'.  y  upon  his  tomb  in  th*'  'iiurc^h  of  the  neighbor- 
ing hamiet  of  Charlecot.*  Th.  [>i(tu)>  gives  a  lively  idva  of  tin' 
costume  and  manners  of  the  timt;.  Sir  Tiiomas  is  dressed  in 
ruff  and  doublet;  white  shoes  with  roses  m  tlieui  ;  and  has  a 
peaked  yellow,  or.  as  Master  Siender  would  say.  ''a  cano- 
colored  beard."     His  li.dy  is  seated  on  the  opposite  dide  of  the 


Appendix,  Note  4. 


STRA  TFORD-ON-A  VON. 


20T 


picture  in  wide  ruff  and  long  stomacher,  and  the  children  have 
a  most  venerable  stiffness  and  formality  of  dress.  Hounds 
and  spaniels  are  mingled  in  the  family  group  ;  a  hawk  is  seated 
on  his  perch  in  the  foreground,  and  one  of  the  children  holds  a 
bow;  —  all  intimating  the  kniglit's  skill  in  hunting,  hawking, 
and  archery  —  so  indispensable  to  an  accomplished  gentleman 
in  those  days.* 

I  regretted  to  find  that  the  ancient  furniture  of  the  hall  had 
disappeared  ;  for  I  had  hoped  to  meet  with  the  stately  elbow- 
chair  of  carved  oak,  in  which  the  country  'Squire  of  former 
dayf?  was  wont  to  sway  the  sceptre  of  empire  over  his  rural 
donii.h.o  ;  and  in  which  it  might  be  presumed  tiio  redoubted 
Sir  Thomas  sat  enthroned  in  awful  state,  when  the  recreant 
Shakspeare  was  brought  before  him.  As  I  like  to  deck  out 
pictures  for  ray  own  entertainment,  1  pleased  myself  with  the 
idea  that  this  very  hall  liad  been  the  scene  of  the  unlucky 
bard's  examination  on  the  morning  after  his  captivity  in  the 
lodge.  I  fancied  to  myself  the  rural  potentate,  surrounded  by 
his  body-guard  of  butler,  pages,  and  blue-coated  serving-men 
with  their  badges  ;  while  the  luckless  culi)nt  was  brought  in, 
forlorn  and  chopfallen,  in  the  custody  of  game-keepers,  liunts- 
men,  and  whippers-in,  and  followed  ))y  a  rabble  rout  of  country 
clowns.  I  fancied  bright  faces  of  curious  house-maids  peeping 
from  the  half-opened  doors  ;  wliile  from  the  gallery  the  fair 
daughters  of  the  Knight  leaned  gnieefuU}'  forward,  eying 
the  youthful  prisoner  with  that  i)ity  ''  that  dwells  in  woman- 
hood."—  Who  would  have  thought  tliat  this  poor  varlet,  thus 
trembling  before  the  brief  autliorily  of  a  country  'Squire,  and 
the  sport  of  rustic  boors,  was  soon  to  become  the  dt'light  of 
princes  ;  tiie  theme  of  all  tongues  and  ages  ;  the  dictator  to  the 
litiinan  mind  ;  and  was  to  confer  immortality  on  his  oppressor 
1)}  a  caricature  and  a  lampoon  ! 

I  was  now  invited  by  the  butler  to  walk  into  the  .enrden,  and 
r  fch  inclined  to  visit  the  orcliaid  and  arbor  where  the  .Justice 
'r^iitcd  Sir  John  Falstaff  and  Cousin  Silence  "  to  a  last  year's 
;)ii'piu  of  his  own  grafting,  with  a  dish  of  caraways;"  but  I 


'  I!inho(,  K»rl*>,  upeukiiiK  of  lti«  pouiilry  ir'-iitlcmim  of  his  time,  obdprves,  "liis  house- 
keeping  in  »i'«-m  (iiiich  in  tlie  dilfi  ri'iil  fiiinilicx  of  iIosT",  it'iil  r.,'i  viiiirincii  attiMidaiil  on 
their  kennels,  and  the  <I"T|iiu'hr  of  t)i<'li  itiioiit-<  Iri  the  fli  |>lh  of  Inn  (Usconrsf.  A  hawk 
bo  eatoenm  the  true  liurUen  of  noliility,  iiml  in  cxecediiitfly  aiiiliiiiDiiH  to  Heein  deliKliteil 
v'llh  the  (port,  and  have  hin  (Int  (jiovrd  with  hJH  j<ksi'i<."  And  <iil|iin,  in  his  description 
ef  a  Mr.  llaMtDKs,  remark*,  "  he  kept  all  uorts  of  hounds  that  run,  buck,  fox,  hare,  otter, 
and  badger,  and  had  hawk«  of  all  kind*  both  long  and  short  winged.  Ills  great  hull  wax 
'commonly  strew*'!  with  marrow  bonen,  and  full  of  hawk  perches,  hounds,  spaniels,  and 
terriers.  On  a  broiw)  hearth,  paved  with  brick,  lay  some  of  the  choicest  terriers,  hounds, 
aud  spaniels." 


mi 


I  ^i 


'  i 


:^,l 


vn-: 


208 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


had  alrp.ady  spent  so  much  of  the  day  in  my  rainbriri;j;s,  that 
I  was  jliged  to  give  u\)  any  further  investigations.  Wlicn 
about  to  take  my  leave,  I  was  gratified  by  the  civil  entreaties 
of  the  housekeeper  and  butler,  that  I  v\oul<l  take  sonio  rofrosii. 
ment  —  an  instance  of  good  old  hospitality,  which  J  griovo  to 
say  we  castle-hunters  seldom  meet  with  in  niodern  days.  I 
make  no  doubt  it  is  a  virttie  which  the  present  rcprest'iitalive 
of  the  Lucys  inherits  from  his  ancestors ;  for  Sliakspcarc,  ovoc 
in  his  caricaiure,  makes  JiMtice  Sludlow  Importunuto  in  [\xk 
respect,  as  witness  his  pres-siug  instances  to  FalstalT. 


1  now  bade  a  reluctant  farewell  to  the  old  hnll.  i\Iy  mind 
had  become  so  completely  possessed  by  tiie  imaginary  seonos 
and  characters  connected  witii  it.  that  I  seemed  to  bo  afln.illv 
living  among  the  v,.  Every  thing  I)roiiglit  them  as  it  wore  be- 
fore my  eyes;  ana  as  the  door  of  the  dining-room  opened,  I 
almost  expected  to  hear  the  feeble  voice  of  JMaster  .Silence 
quavering  forth  his  favorite  ditty  : 

"  'TiH  morry  in  hall,  whTi  brnnlR  wag  all, 
And  welcome  merry  Shiove-tide!  " 

On  return hig  lo  my  inn,  I  could  not  but  reflect  on  the  siiirju- 
lar  gift  of  the  poet;  to  be  able  thus  to  spread  tlie  magic  of  his 
mind  over  the  very  face  of  nature  ;  to  give  to  things  and  piaotis 
a  charm  and  character  not  their  own,  and  to  turn  this  '■'  work- 
ing-day world  "  into  a  perfect  fairy  land.  He  is  indeed  the  triu; 
enchanter,  whose  spell  operates,  not  upon  the  senses,  but  u[)oii 
the  imaginati(m  and  the  heart.  Under  tlie  wizard  inlluenee  of 
Shakspeare  I  had  been  walking  all  day  in  a  complete  delusion. 
I  had  surveyed  the  landscape  throiigli  the  prism  of  poetry, 
which  tinged  every  object  with  the  hues  of  the  rainbow.  1  hud 
been  surrounded  with  fancied  beings;  with  mere  airy  notiiings, 
conjured  up  by  poetic  power;  yet  wliieli,  to  me,  had  all  the 
charm  of  reality.  I  had  heard  Jaqiics  soliloquize  beneath  liis 
oak  ;  had  beheld  the  fair  llosalind  and  lier  Cf)mpanion  adventur- 
ing through  the  woodlands  :  and,  above  all,  had  been  once  inon; 
present  in  spirit  witli  fat  Jack  Falstal'f.  and  his  contempornries, 
from  the  august  Justice  Shallow,  down  to  the  gentle  Abistcr 
Slender,  and  the  sweet  Anne  Page.     Ten  thousand  honors  aiiJ 


olessing^  on 

life  with  inn 

bought  pleat 

in  many  a  h 

tbics  of  soci 

As  I  cros 

♦o  contompl 

and  could  n 

ashes  niidis 

hon.^r  could 

companions 

eulogiams  c 

in  Westinin 

pile,  which 

mausoleum 

otTspriiig  o1 

made  up  of 

atToetions  ii 

has  sought 

vest  of  woi 

no  ad  mi  rat 

springs  up 

gathered  ii: 

friends,     j 

warn  him 

fondly  as  < 

in  the  l)os( 

How  w 

when,  war 

cast  back 

foreseen  t 

vvitli  reiun 

of  ills  nati 

as  its  mos 

whicli  his 

day  becun 

U)  guide  tl 


o 


If   . 


)ii..' 


Wlicn 
reaties 
I'/rosh- 

'vo  to 

htiitive 


'0  you; 
Hcrvp; 


STRA  TFOBT)'  O^-A  VON. 


209 


,)lc9sin,aj^  on  tlio  bnrd  who  has  tiins  gildnd  tlio  dull  realities  o! 
life  Avitli  innocent  illusions ;  who  has  spread  exquisite  and  un- 
bouglit  pleasures  in  my  cheoquerod  path  ;  and  l)ot!;uiled  my  npirit 
in  many  a  lonely  hour,  with  all  the  cordial  and  cheerful  sympa- 
thies of  social  life  ! 

As  1  crossed  the  l)ridge  over  the  Avon  on  my  return,  I  paused 
♦o  coutomplate  the  distant  church  in  wliioli  the  poet  lies  buried, 
and  could  not  but  exult  in  tlie  malediction  which  has  kept  his 
ashes  uiidistuibed  in  its  quiet  and  hallowed  vaults.  What 
lioiur  could  his  name  liave  derived  from  being  mingled  in  dusty 
compaiiionsliip  with  the  epitaphs  and  escutcheons  and  venal 
eulotiiiinis  of  a  titled  multitude?  What  would  a  crowded  corner 
in  Westminster  Abbey  have  been,  compared  with  this  reverend 
pile,  wliich  seems  to  stand  in  beautifiU  loneliness  as  his  sole 
mausoleum !  The  solicitude  about  the  grave  may  be  but  the 
otTispring  of  an  overwrought  sensibility  ;  but  human  nature  is 
made  up  of  foibles  and  prejudices  ;  and  its  best  and  tenderest 
iiffections  are  mingled  with  tliese  factitious  feelings.  He  who 
has  sought  renown  about  the  world,  and  has  reaped  a  full  har- 
vest of  worldly  favor,  will  find,  after  all,  that  there  is  no  love, 
no  admiration,  no  applause,  so  sweet  to  the  soul  as  that  which 
springs  u\)  in  his  native  place.  It  is  there  that  he  seeks  to  be 
gathered  in  peace  and  honor,  among  his  kindred  and  his  early 
friends.  And  when  the  weary  heart  and  failing  head  l)egin  to 
warn  liiin  that  the  evening  of  life  is  drawing  on,  he  turns  as 
loudly  as  does  ilie  infant  to  the  mother's  arms,  to  sink  to  sleep 
in  the  bosom  of  the  scene  of  his  childhood. 

How  would  it  have  cheered  the  spirit  of  the  youthful  bard, 
when,  wandering  forth  in  disgrace  upon  a  doubtful  world,  he 
east  back  a  heavy  look  upon  his  paternal  home,  could  he  liave 
foreseen  that,  before  many  years,  lie  should  return  to  it  covered 
with  renown  ;  that  his  name  sliould  become  the  boast  and  glory 
of  Ills  native  place  ,'  that  his  ashes  should  be  religiously  guarded 
as  its  most  precious  treasure ;  and  that  its  lessening  spire,  on 
which  liis  eyes  were  fixed  in  tearful  contemplation,  should  one 
day  become  the  beacon,  towering  amidst  the  gentle  landscape, 
U)  guide  the  literary  pilgrim  of  every  nation  to  his  tomb ! 


^'1 
III 


>'.  *t 


210 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


,   t'; 


li| 


n 


TRAITS  OF   INDIAN  CHARACTER. 

"  I  appeal  to  any  white  man  if  ever  he  entered  Logan's  cabin  hungry,  and  be  gave 
bim  not  to  tat ;  If  ever  hu  cunie  cold  and  uakad,  uud  he  clothed  him  not."  —  Sptech  0/ 
un  Indian  Chief. 

There  is  somotliinp:  in  tlie  character  and  habits  of  the  North 
American  savage,  taken  in  connection  with  the  scenery  over 
which  lie  is  acciistoined  to  range,  its  vast  lakes,  boundless 
forests,  majestic  rivers,  and  trackless  plains,  that  is,  to  my 
mind,  wonderfully  striking  and  sublime.  He  is  formed  for  the 
wilderness,  as  the  Aral)  is  for  the  desert.  His  nature  is  stern, 
Bimple,  and  cudiuiiig ;  fitted  to  grai)i)le  with  ditliculties,  and  to 
support  i)rivati<)iis.  There  seems  but  little  soil  in  his  heart  for 
the  support  of  the  kindly  virtues ;  and  yet,  if  we  would  but  take 
the  trouble  to  penetrate  through  that  proud  stoicism  and  habit- 
ual taciturnity,  which  lock  up  his  character  from  casiuvl  obser- 
vation, we  should  find  biin  linked  to  his  fellow-man  of  civilized 
life  by  more  of  those  symi)athies  and  affections  than  are  usually 
ascribed  to  him. 

It  has  been  the  lot  of  the  unfortunate  aborigines  of  America, 
in  the  early  periods  of  colonization,  to  be  doubly  wronged  by 
the  white  men.  They  have  been  disp*)ssesscd  of  their  heivdi- 
tary  possessions,  by  mercenary  and  frequently  wanton  warfare ; 
and  their  characters  have  been  traduced  by  bigoted  and  inter- 
ested writers.  Tiie  colonists  often  treated  them  like  boasts 
of  the  forest;  and  the  author  has  endeavored  to  justify  him  in 
his  outi-ages.  The  former  found  it  easier  to  cxteruiinate  than 
to  civilize  —  the  latter  to  vilify  than  to  discriminate.  The  ap 
pellations  of  savage  and  pagan  were  deemed  sufficient  to  sanc- 
tion the  hostilities  of  both  ;  and  thus  the  poor  wanderers  of  tla- 
forest  were  persecuted  and  defamed,  not  because  they  weru 
guilty,  but  because  they  were  ignorant. 

The  rights  of  the  savage  have  seldom  been  properly  appre- 
ciated or  respected  by  the  white  man.  In  peace,  he  has  too 
often  been  the  dupe  of  artful  traffic ;  in  war,  he  has  been  re- 
garded as  a  ferocious  animal,  whose  life  or  death  was  a  question 
of  mere  precaution  and  convenience.  Man  is  cruell}'  wasteful 
of  life  when  his  own  safety  is  endangered,  and  he  is  sheltered 
by  impunity  ;  and  littl"  mercy  is  to  be  expected  from  him  when 
he  feels  the  sting  of  the  reptile,  and  is  conscious  of  the  power  t** 
destroy. 


The  8am( 
In  common 
Bocietics  ha 
investigate 
Indian  trib( 
humanely  c 
spirit  towar 
tice.»    The 
too  apt  to  I 
frontiers,  a 
too  com  mo 
enfeebled  h 
civilization 
pillar  of  sa 
moral  fabri 
based  by  a 
gnd  daunt 
enlightene* 
one  of  tho 
tion  over  i 
strength,  n 
original  ba 
them  a  thi 
their  mean 
luals  of  th 
smoke   of 
remoter  fo 
find  the  1 
renmants 
vicinity  of 
bond  exit 
canker  of 
and  blighi 
become  d 
They  loit( 
dwellings 
them  sen 
condition 
but  they 


t  The  An 
■ituation  of 
«nd  relixiou 
purchaai!  uf 
receive  lant 
TheBc  l>rewi 


I, 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CUARACTER. 


211 


gave 


orth 
over 
less 
my 
the 
torn, 


The  same  prejiulioos  which  were  indulged  thus  earlr,  exist 
in  common  ciicuhition  at  the  present  day.  Certain  learned 
societies  have,  it  is  true,  with  laudable  diligence,  endeavored  to 
investigate  and  record  the  real  characters  and  manners  of  the 
Indian  tribes ;  the  American  government,  too,  has  wisely  and 
humanely  exerted  itself  to  inculcate  a  friendly  and  forbearing 
spirit  towarils  tlictn,  and  to  protect  them  from  fraud  and  injus- 
tice.' The  current  opinion  of  the  Indian  character,  however,  is 
too  apt  to  be  formed  from  the  miserable  hordes  which  infest  the 
frontiers,  and  iumg  on  tlie  skirts  of  the  settlements.  These  are 
too  commonly  composed  of  degenerate  beings,  corrupted  and 
enfeebled  l)y  tiie  vices  of  society,  without  being  benefited  by  its 
civilization.  That  proud  independence,  which  formed  the  main 
pillar  of  savage  virtue,  has  been  shaken  down,  and  the  whole 
moral  fabric  lies  in  ruins.  Their  spirits  are  humiliated  and  de- 
based by  a  sense  of  inferiority,  and  their  native  courage  cowed 
gnd  daunted  by  the  superior  knowledge  and  power  of  their 
enlightened  neighbors.  Society  has  advanced  upon  them  like 
one  of  those  withering  airs  that  will  sometimes  breathe  desola- 
tion over  a  whole  region  of  fertility.  It  has  enervated  their 
strength,  multiplied  their  diseases,  and  superinduced  upon  their 
original  barbarity  the  low  vices  of  artificial  life.  It  has  given 
them  a  thousand  superfluous  wants,  whilst  it  has  diminished 
their  means  of  mere  existence.  It  has  driven  before  it  the  ani- 
mals of  the  chase,  who  fly  from  the  sound  of  the  axe  and  the 
smoke  of  the  settlement,  and  seek  refuge  in  the  depths  of 
remoter  forests  and  yet  untrodden  wilds.  Thus  do  we  too  often 
find  the  Indians  on  our  frontiers  to  be  the  mere  wrecks  and 
renmants  of  once  powerful  tribes,  who  have  lingered  in  the 
vicinity  of  the  settlements,  and  sunk  into  precarious  and  vaga- 
bond existence.  Poverty,  repining  and  hopeless  poverty,  a 
canker  of  the  mind  unknown  in  savage  life,  corrodes  their  spirits 
and  blights  every  free  and  noble  quality  of  their  natures.  They 
become  drunken,  indolent,  feeble,  thievish,  and  pusillanimous. 
They  loiter  like  vagrants  about  the  settlements,  among  spacious 
dwellings,  replete  with  elaborate  comforts,  which  only  render 
them  sensible  of  the  comparative  wretchedness  of  their  own 
condition.  Luxury  spreads  its  ample  board  before  their  eyes ; 
but  they  are  excluded  from  the  banquet.     Plenty  revels  over 

•  The  American  government  han  boon  indefatigable  in  its  exertions  to  ameliorate  thu 
iituation  of  the  TndianB,  and  to  iiitrndiici'  among  thi-m  the  arts  of  ciyilization,  and  civil 
tnd  religious  knowledge.  'Vo  protect  them  from  the  frauds  of  the  white  traders,  no 
purchaae  of  land  from  them  by  individuals  is  permitted;  nor  is  any  pereon  allowed  to 
receive  lands  from  them  an  a  present,  wiUiout  the  expreM  sanction  of  govcrnmaatt 
Theue  precauUouit  are  strictly  enloncdi 


iii 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


a 


II 


212 


TffS  SKETOn-BOOK. 


the  fields  ;  but  they  are  starving  in  the  midst  of  its  abundance ; 
the  whole  wilderness  has  blossomed  into  a  garden ;  but  they 
feel  as  reptiles  that  infest  it. 

How  different  was  their  state  while  yet  the  undisputed  lords 
of  the  soil !  Their  wants  were  few,  and  the  means  of  gratifi- 
cation within  their  reach.  They  saw  every  one  around  them 
sharing  the  same  lot,  eaduring  the  same  hardships,  feeding  on 
the  same  aliments,  arrayed  in  the  same  rude  garments.  No 
roof  then  rose,  but  was  open  to  the  homeless  stranger ;  no 
smoke  curltd  among  the  trees,  but  he  was  welcome  to  sit  down 
by  its  fire  and  join  the  hunter  in  his  ropast.  "  For,"  says  an 
old  historian  of  New  England,  "  their  life  is  so  void  of  care, 
and  they  are  so  loving  also,  that  they  make  use  of  those  things 
tJiey  enjoy  as  common  goods,  and  are  therein  so  compassionate, 
that  rather  than  one  should  starve  through  want,  they  would 
starve  all;  thus  they  pass  tlioir  time  merrily,  not  rej^anling 
our  pomp,  but  are  better  content  with  their  own,  which  some 
men  esteem  so  meanly  of."  Such  were  the  Indians,  whilst  in 
the  pride  and  energy  of  their  primitive  natures  ;  they  resemble 
those  wild  plants  which  thrive  best  in  the  shades  of  the  forest, 
but  shrink  from  the  hand  of  cultivation,  and  perish  beneath  Die 
influence  of  the  sun. 

In  discussing  the  savage  character,  writers  have  been  too 
prone  to  indulge  in  vulgar  prejudice  and  passionate  exaggera- 
tion, instead  of  the  candid  temper  of  true  philosophy.  They 
have  not  suflSciently  considered  the  peculiar  circumstances  in 
which  the  Indians  have  been  placed,  and  the  peculiar  principles 
under  which  they  have  been  educated.  No  being  acts  more 
rigidly  from  rule  than  the  Indian.  His  whole  conduct  is  regu- 
lated according  to  some  general  maxims  early  implanted  in  his 
iniud.  The  moral  laws  that  govern  him  are,  to  be  sure,  but 
few ;  but  then  he  conforms  to  them  all ;  —  the  white  man 
abounds  in  laws  of  religion,  morals,  and  manners,  but  how 
many  does  he  violate  ! 

A  frequent  ground  of  accusation  against  the  Indians  is  their 
disregard  of  treaties,  and  the  treachery  and  wantonness  with 
which,  in  time  of  apparent  peace,  they  will  suddenly  fly  to 
hostilities.  The  intercourse  of  the  white  men  with  the  Indians, 
however,  is  too  apt  to  be  cold,  distrustful,  oppressive,  and  in- 
sulting. They  seldom  treat  them  with  that  confidence  and 
frankness  which  are  indispensable  to  real  friendship;  nor  ia 
sufTieient  caution  observed  not  to  offend  against  those  feelings 
of  pride  or  superstition,  which  often  prompt  the  Indian  to  hos- 
tility quicker  than  mere  considerations  of  interest.    The  solitar;« 


TRAITS   OF  LVD  IAN  CHARACTER. 


213 


(bey 


savnge  feels  silently,  but  acutely.  His  sensibilities  are  not 
diffused  over  so  wide  a  surface  as  those  of  the  white  man  ;  but 
tliev  run  in  steadier  and  deeju-r  channels.  His  pride,  his  affec- 
tions, his  superstitions,  are  all  directeil  towards  fewer  objects  ; 
but  the  wounds  inllicted  on  them  are  proportionably  severe, 
and  furnish  motives  of  hostility  wiiich  we  cannot  sufficiently 
appreciate.  Wliere  a  conmuniity  is  .il.-,o  limited  in  nuuiber,  and 
forms  one  great  patriarclud  family,  as  in  aa  Indian  tribe,  the 
injury  of  an  individual  is  the  injury  of  the  whole,  and  the  senti- 
ment of  vengeance  is  'dniost  instantaneously  diffused.  On;! 
council-fire  is  sutlicient  for  the  discussion  and  arranirernent  of 
a  plan  of  hostilities.  Here  all  the  fighting  men  and  sages 
assetnl)le.  EUxjuence  and  superstition  combine  to  inllamc  the 
minds  of  the  warriors.  The  onitor  awakens  their  martial  ardor, 
and  they  are  wrought  up  lo  a  kind  of  religious  desperation,  by 
the  visions  of  the  projjhet  antl  the  dreamer. 

An  instance  of  one  of  tiiose  sudden  exasperations,  arising 
from  a  motive  peculiar  to  the  Indian  character,  is  extant  in  an 
old  record  of  the  early  settlement  of  Massachusetts.  The 
planters  of  Plymouth  had  defaced  the  monuments  of  the  dead 
at  Passonagessit,  and  had  plundered  the  grave  of  the  Sachem's 
mother  of  some  skins  with  which  it  had  been  decorated.  The 
Indians  are  remarkable  for  the  reverence  which  they  entertain 
U)V  the  sepulchres  of  their  kindred.  Tribes  ihat  have  passed 
generations  exiled  from  the  abodes  of  their  ancestors,  when  by 
chance  they  liave  been  travelling  in  tiic  vicinity,  have  been 
known  to  turn  aside  from  the  highway,  and,  guided  by  wonder- 
fidly  accurate  tradition,  have  crossed  the  country  for  miles  to 
some  tumulus,  buried  perhaps  in  woods,  where  the  bones  of 
their  tribe  were  anciently  deposited ;  and  there  have  passed 
hours  in  silent  meditation.  Inlluenced  by  this  sublime  and 
holy  feeling,  the  Sachem,  whose  mother's  tomb  had  been  vio- 
lated, gathered  his  men  together,  and  addressed  them  in  tho 
following  beautifully  simple  and  pathetic  harangue  ;  a  curious 
specimen  of  Indian  eloquence,  and  an  affecting  instance  of  filial 
piety  in  a  savage  : 

"  When  last  the  glorious  light  of  all  the  sky  was  underneath 
this  globe,  and  birds  grew  silent,  I  began  to  settle,  as  my  cus- 
tom is,  to  take  re|)ose.  Before  mine  eyes  were  fast  closed, 
methought  I  saw  a  vision,  at  which  my  spirit  was  much 
troubleil ;  and  trembling  at  that  doleful  sight,  a  spirit  cried 
aloud,  '  Behold,  my  son,  whom  I  have  cherished,  see  the  breasts 
that  gave  thee  suck,  the  hands  that  lapped  thee  warm,  and  fed 
tliee  oft.     Canst  thou  forget   to  tuko  revenge  of   those  wild 


l^i 


214 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


%';   ■•  ',. 


:m 


people,  who  have  defaced  my  monument  in  a  despiteful  manner, 
disdaining  our  antiquities  and  honorable  customs?  See,  now^ 
the  Sachem's  grave  lies  like  the  common  people,  defaced  by  an 
ignoble  race.  Thy  mother  doth  complain,  and  implores  tliy  aid 
against  this  thievish  people,  who  have  newly  intruded  on  our 
land.  If  this  be  suffered,  I  sliall  not  rest  quiet  in  my  cverhist- 
ing  habitation.'  This  said,  tiie  spirit  vanished,  and  I,  all  in  a 
sweat,  not  able  scarce  to  speak,  began  to  get  some  strength 
and  recollect  my  spirits  that  were  fled,  and  determined  to  demand 
yoiir  counsel  and  assistance." 

I  have  adduced  this  anecdote  at  some  lonprth,  as  it  tends  to 
show  how  these  sudden  acts  of  hostility,  wliich  have  been  at- 
tributed to  caprice  and  perfidy,  may  often  arise  from  deep  and 
generous  motives,  which  our  inattention  to  Indian  character 
and  customs  prevents  our  properly  appreciating. 

Another  ground  of  violent  outcry  against  the  Indians,  is  their 
barbarity  to  the  vanquished.  This  had  its  origin  partly  in  policy 
and  partly  in  superstition.  The  tribes,  though  sometimes  called 
nations,  were  never  so  formidable  in  their  numbers,  but  that 
the  loss  of  several  warriors  was  sensibly  felt ;  this  was  particu- 
larly the  case  when  they  had  been  frequently  engaged  in  war- 
fare ;  and  many  an  instance  occurs  in  Indian  history,  where  a 
tribe,  that  had  long  been  formidable  tc  its  neighbors,  has  been 
broken  up  and  driven  away,  by  the  capture  and  massacre  of  its 
principal  fighting  men.  There  was  a  strong  temptation,  there- 
fore, to  the  victor,  to  be  merciless  ;  not  so  m'"nh  to  gratify  any 
cruel  revenge,  as  to  provide  for  future  security.  The  Indians 
had  also  the  superstitious  belief,  frequent  among  barbarous 
nations,  and  prevalent  also  among  the  ancients,  that  the  manes 
oi  their  friends  who  had  fallen  in  battle  were  soothed  by  the 
blood  of  the  captives.  The  prisoners,  however,  who  are  not 
thus  sacrificed,  are  adopted  into  their  families  in  the  place  of 
the  slain,  and  are  treated  with  the  confidence  and  affection  of 
relatives  and  friends ;  nay,  so  hospitable  and  tender  is  their 
entertainment,  that  when  the  alternative  is  offered  them,  they 
will  often  prefer  to  remain  with  their  adopted  brethicn,  rather 
than  return  to  the  home  and  the  friends  of  their  youth. 

The  cruelty  of  the  Indians  towards  their  prisoners  has  been 
heightened  since  the  colonization  of  the  whites.  AVhat  was 
formerly  a  compliance  with  policy  and  superstition,  has  been 
exasperated  into  a  gratification  of  vengeance.  They  cannot  but 
be  sensible  that  the  white  men  are  the  usurpers  of  their  ancient 
dominion,  the  cause  of  their  degradation,  and  the  gradual  de. 
Btroyers  oi  their  race.     They  go  forth  to  battle,  smarting  with 


TRAITS   OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER. 


215 


[tjoer, 

now, 

py  an 

jy  aid 

|i  our 

|ll;i.st. 

in  a 

I'lgt!, 

land 


their 


injuries  and  indignities  which  tlioy  have  individually  sufiferod, 
and  they  are  driven  to  madness  and  despair  by  the  widu-spread- 
ing  desolation,  and  the  overwhelming  ruin  of  European  warfare. 
The  whites  have  too  frequently  set  them  an  example  of  violence, 
by  burning  their  villages  and  laying  waste  their-  slender  means 
of  subsistence  ;  and  yet  they  wonder  that  savages  do  not  show 
moderation  and  magnanimity  towards  those  who  have  left  them 
nothing  but  mere  existence  and  wretchedness. 

We  stigmatize  the  Indians,  also,  as  cowardly  and  treacherous, 
because  they  use  stratagem  in  warfare,  in  preference  to  open 
force ;  but  in  this  they  are  fully  justified  by  their  rude  code  of 
honor.  They  are  early  taught  that  stratagem  is  praiseworthy  : 
the  bravest  warrior  thinks  it  no  disgrace  to  lurk  in  silence,  and 
take  every  advantage  of  his  toe  :  lie  triumphs  in  the  superior 
craft  and  sagacity  by  which  he  has  been  enal)lcd  to  surprise  and 
destroy  an  enemy.  Indeed,  man  is  naturally  more  prone  to 
subtilty  than  open  valor,  owing  to  his  physical  weakness  in 
comparison  with  other  animals.  They  are  endowed  with  natu- 
ral  weapons  of  defence :  with  horns,  with  tusks,  with  hoofs, 
and  talons :  but  man  has  to  depend  on  his  superior  sagacity. 
In  all  his  encounters  with  these,  his  proper  enemies,  he  resortsr 
to  stratagem  ;  and  when  he  perversely  turns  his  hostility  against 
his  fellow-man,  he  at  first  continues  the  same  subtle  mode  of 
warfare. 

The  natural  principle  of  war  is  to  do  the  most  harm  to  out 
enemy,  with  the  least  harm  to  ourselves ;  and  this  of  course  is 
to  be  effected  by  stratagem.  That  chivalrous  courage  which 
induces  us  to  despise  the  suggestions  of  prudence,  and  to  rush 
in  the  face  of  certain  danger,  is  the  offsnring  of  society,  and 
produced  by  education.  It  is  honorable,  because  it  is  in  fact 
the  triumph  of  lofty  sentiment  over  an  instinctive  repugnance 
to  pain,  and  over  tiiose  yearnings  after  personal  ease  and 
security,  which  society  has  condemned  as  ignoble.  It  is  kept 
alive  by  pride  and  the  fear  of  shame  ;  and  thus  the  dread  of 
real  evil  is  overcome  by  the  superior  dread  of  an  evil  which 
exists  but  in  the  imagination.  It  has  been  cherished  and  stimu- 
lated also  by  various  means.  It  has  been  the  theme  of  spirit- 
stirring  song  and  chivalrous  story.  The  poet  and  minstrel  have 
delighted  to  shed  round  it  the  splendors  of  fiction  ;  and  even 
the  historian  has  forgotten  the  sober  gravity  of  narration,  and 
broken  forth  into  enthusiasm  and  rhapsody  in  its  praise.  Tri- 
umphs and  gorgeous  pageants  have  been  its  reward  :  monu- 
ments, on  which  art  has  exhausted  its  skill,  and  opulence  its 
treasures,  have  been  erected  to  perpetuate  a  nation's  gratitudi> 


;  ) 


-*..,>*»»»  '>  \ 


216 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


i;.! 


and  admiration.  Thus  artilicially  excited,  courage  has  risen  to 
au  extraordinary  and  factitious  di'gree  of  lieroism  ;  and,  arrayed 
iu  ail  the  glorious  "  pomp  and  circumstance  of  war,"  tliis  tiirbu- 
lent  quality  has  even  been  able  to  eclipse  many  of  those  (|uiet, 
but  invaluable  virtues,  which  silently  ennoble  tlie  human  char- 
acter, and  swell  the  tide  of  human  happiness. 

But  if  courage  intrinsically  consists  in  the  defiance  of  danger 
and  pain,  tiie  life  of  the  Indian  is  a  continual  exiiibition  uf  it. 
He  lives  iu  a  state  of  perpetual  hostility  and  risk.  IVril  and 
adventure  are  congenial  to  his  nature  ;  or  rather  seem  neces- 
sary to  arouse  his  faculties  and  to  give  an  interest  to  his  exist- 
ence. Surrounded  i)y  hostile  tribes  whose  mode  of  warfare  is 
by  ambush  and  surprisal,  he  is  always  prepared  for  light,  and 
lives  with  his  weapons  in  his  hands.  As  the  ship  careers  in 
fearful  singleness  through  the  solitudes  of  ocean,  —  as  the  l)ir(l 
mingles  among  clouds  and  storms,  and  wings  its  way,  a  mere 
speclv,  across  the  pathless  fields  of  air;  so  tlie  Indian  holds  his 
course,  silent,  solitary,  but  undaunted,  through  the  boundless 
bosom  of  the  wilderness.  His  expeditions  may  vie  in  distance 
and  danger  with  the  pilgrimage  of  the  devotee,  or  the  crusade 
of  the  knight-errant.  lie  traverses  vast  forests,  exposed  to  the 
liazards  of  lonely  sickness,  of  lurking  enemies,  and  pining 
famine.  Stormy  lakes,  tliose  great  inland  seas,  are  no  obsta- 
cles to  his  wanderings:  in  his  light  canoe  of  l)ark,  he  sports 
like  a  feather  on  their  waves,  and  darts  with  tiie  swiftness  of 
an  arrow  down  the  roaring  lapids  of  the  rivers.  His  very  sul)- 
sistence  is  snatched  from  the  midst  of  toil  and  peril.  He  gaina 
his  food  by  the  hardshii)s  and  dangers  of  the  chase  ;  he  wraiis 
liimself  in  the  si)oils  of  the  bear,  the  panther,  and  Ihti  biitTalo  ; 
and  sleeps  among  the  tliunders  of  the  cataract. 

No  hero  of  ancient  or  modern  days  can  surpass  the  Indian  in 
his  lofty  contempt  of  death,  and  the  fortitude  with  which  In 
^justaius  its  crudest  infliction.  Indeed,  we  here  behold  hiir 
rising  superior  to  the  wliite  man,  in  consequence  of  his  peculiar 
education.  The  latter  rushes  to  glorious  death  at  the  cann(;n's 
mouth  ;  the  former  calmly  contmiithitcs  iLs  appioach,  and  tri- 
umphantly endures  it,  amidst  the  varied  tornuiit s  of  surroiiiul 
ing  foes,  and  the  protracted  agonies  of  fire.  lie  even  takes  a 
pride  in  taunting  his  persecutors,  and  provoking  th(  ir  ingenuity 
of  torture;  and  as  the  devouring  fiaines  prey  on  his  vciv  vitals. 
and  the  flesh  shrinks  from  the  sinews,  he  raises  lli^^  hisl  song  of 
triumph,  breathing  the  deliiun-e  of  an  uneoncpieriMl  licart,  :ind 
invoking  the  spi^-its  of  his  fatliers  to  wituess  that  he  dies  with- 
out a  groan. 


TRAITS  OF  INDIAN  CHARACTER. 


217 


to 

kved 

1)11- 

liic't, 

liar- 


it. 
and 
cos- 

Lst- 

e  iis 

ami 

.s  in 

)ir(i 

11 1!  re 

his 

t'SS 

nice 

sade 

llie 


Notwitlistaiuling  the  obloquj'  with  which  the  early  historians 
have  overshadowed  the  diameters  of  the  uufortunate  natives, 
some  blight  <j,l(aiiis  ofcasiuiially  break  through,  which  throw  a 
degree  of  iiielaneholy  histre  ou  their  memories.  Facts  are  occa> 
sionally  to  be  met  witli  in  tlie  rude  annals  of  the  eastern  prov- 
inces, which,  though  recorded  with  the  coloring  of  prejudice 
and  bigotry,  yA  speak  for  themselves  ;  and  will  be  dwelt  on 
witli  applause  and  sympathy,  when  prejudice  shall  have  passed 
■AW  ay. 

Ill  one  of  the  homely  narratives  of  the  Indian  wars  in  New 
England,  tiiere  is  a  touching  account  of  the  desolation  carried 
into  the  tribe  of  the  reipiod  Indians.  Humanity  shrinks  from 
the  cold-blooded  detail  of  indiscriminate  butchery.  In  one 
place  we  read  of  the  surprisal  of  an  Indian  fort  in  the  night, 
when  the  wigwams  were  wrapped  in  flames,  and  the  miserable 
iiilial)itauls  shot  down  and  slain  in  attempting  to  escape,  "  all 
being  despalehed  and  ended  in  the  course  of  an  hour."  After 
a  series  of  similar  transactions,  "our  soldiers,"  as  the  histo- 
rian piously  observes,  "  ))eing  resolved  by  God's  assistance  to 
make  a  Imal  destruction  of  them,"  the  unhappy  savages  being 
limited  from  their  homes  and  fortresses,  and  pursued  with  fire 
and  sword,  a  scanty  but  gallant  band,  the  sad  remnant  of  the 
IVMpKxl  warriors,  with  their  wives  and  children,  took  refuge  Id 
a  swamp. 

Burning  with  indignation,  and  rendered  sullen  by  despair; 
with  hearts  bursting  with  grief  at  the  destruction  of  their  tribe, 
and  spirits  galled  and  sore  at  the  fancied  ignominy  of  theii 
defeat,  they  refused  to  ask  their  lives  at  the  hands  of  an  insult- 
ing foe,  and  preferred  death  to  submission. 

As  the  night  drew  on,  they  were  surrounded  in  their  dismal 
ri'lreat,  so  as  to  render  escape  impracticable.  Thus  situated, 
tlieir  enemy  "■  plied  them  with  shot  all  the  time,  by  which 
means  many  were  killed  and  buried  in  the  mire."  In  the 
darkness  and  fog  that  preceded  the  dawn  of  day,  some  few 
broke  thiough  the  besiegers  and  escaped  into  the  woods  :  '■  the 
rest  were  left  to  the  conquerors,  of  which  many  were  killed  in 
the  swamp,  like  sullen  dogs  who  would  rather,  in  their  self- 
willedness  and  madness,  sit  still  and  be  shot  through,  or  cut  to 
pieces,"  than  implore  for  mercy.  When  the  day  broke  upon 
this  handful  of  forlorn  but  dauntless  spirits,  the  soldiers,  we 
are  told,  entering  the  swamp,  "  saw  several  heaps  of  tliem  sit- 
ting close  together,  upon  whom  they  discharged  their  pieces, 
laden  with  ten  or  twelve  pistol-bullets  at  a  time  ;  putting  the 
muzzles  of  the  pieces  under  the  boughs,  within  a  few  yards  of 


218 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


them ;  so  as,  besides  those  that  were  found  dead,  many  mora 
were  killed  and  sunk  into  the  mire,  and  never  were  minded 
more  by  friend  or  foe." 

Can  any  one  read  this  plain  unvarnished  tale,  without  ad- 
miring the  stern  i*esolutiou,  the  unbending  pride,  the  loftiness 
of  spirit,  that  seemed  to  nerve  the  hearts  of  these  self-taught 
heroes,  and  to  raise  them  above  the  instinctive  feelings  of 
human  nature?  When  the  Gauls  laid  waste  the  city  of  Rome, 
they  found  the  senators  clothed  in  their  robes  and  seated  with 
stern  tranquillity  in  their  curule  chairs ;  in  this  manner  tliev 
suffered  death  without  resistance  or  even  supplication.  Such 
conduct  was,  iu  them,  applauded  as  noble  and  magnanimous  — 
in  the  hapless  Indians,  it  was  reviled  as  obstinate  and  sullen. 
How  truly  are  we  the  dupes  of  show  and  circumstance  1  How 
different  is  virtue,  clothed  in  purple  and  enthroned  in  state, 
from  virtue  naked  and  destitute,  and  perishing  obscurely  in  a 
wilderness ! 

But  I  forbear  to  dwell  on  these  gloomy  pictures.  The  east- 
ern tribes  have  long  since  disappeared  ;  the  forests  that  shel- 
tered them  have  been  laid  low,  and  scarce  any  traces  remain  of 
them  in  the  thickly-settled  states  of  New-England,  excepting 
here  and  there  the  Indian  name  of  a  village  or  a  stream.  And 
such  must  sooner  or  later  be  the  fate  of  those  other  tribes 
which  skirt  the  frontiers,  and  have  occasionally  been  inveigled 
from  their  forests  to  mingle  in  the  wars  of  white  men.  In  a 
little  while,  and  they  will  go  the  way  that  their  brethren  have 
gone  before.  The  few  hordes  which  still  linger  about  the 
shores  of  Huron  and  Superior,  and  the  tributary  streams  of 
the  Mississippi,  will  share  the  fate  of  those  tribes  that  once 
spread  over  Massaeiiusetts  and  Connecticut,  and  lorded  it 
along  the  proud  banks  of  the  Hudson  ;  of  that  gigantic  race 
said  to  have  existed  on  the  borders  of  the  Susquehanna ;  aud 
of  those  various  nations  that  flourished  about  the  Potoinnc 
and  the  Rappahannock,  and  that  peopled  the  forests  of  the  vast 
valley  of  Shenandoah.  Thoy  will  vanish  like  a  vapor  from 
the  face  of  the  earth ;  their  very  history  will  be  lost  in  forget- 
fulness;  and  "  the  places  that  now  know  them  will  know  them 
no  more  forever."  Or  if,  perchance,  some  dubious  memorial 
of  them  should  survive,  it  may  be  in  the  romantic  dreams  of 
the  poet,  to  people  in  imagination  his  glades  and  groves,  like 
the  fauns  and  satyrs  aud  sylvan  deities  of  antiquity.  But 
should  he  venture  upon  the  dark  story  of  their  wrongs  and 
wretchedness ;  should  he  tell  how  they  were  invaded,  cor- 
rupted, despoiled ;  diiven  from  their  native  abodes  and  the 


FUILIP  OF  POKANOKET. 


219 


lore 

led 

lad- 
less 

of 

fne, 

•ith 

I  ley 

lut'ii 


seoiilchrcs  of  their  fathers ;  huuted  like  wild  beasts  about  the 
earth ;  and  sent  down  with  violence  aud  butchery  to  the  grave 
—  jtosterity  will  either  turn  with  horror  and  incredulity  from 
the  tale,  or  blush  with  indij^nation  at  the  inhumanity  of  their 
forefathers.  "We  are  driven  back,"  said  an  old  warrior, 
"until  we  can  retreat  no  farther  —  our  hatchets  are  broken, 
©ur  bows  are  snappetl,  our  llres  are  nearly  extinguished  —  a 
little  longer  and  the  white  man  will  cease  to  persecute  us  —  for 
we  shall  cease  to  exist." 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET. 

AN    INDIAN    MEMOIU. 

An  munumcntul  bronze  unchauged  his  look: 

A  Boul  Ihul  pity  toiich'd,  but  iiover  sbook; 

Traln'd,  from  hlB  tree-rock'd  cradle  to  hia  bier, 

The  fierce  extreines  of  good  and  ill  to  brook 

ImpuiiHive  —  fearinn;  but  tlie  shume  of  fear  — 

A  stoic  uf  the  woods  —  u  inau  without  a  tear.  —  Campbiu.. 

It  is  to  be  regretted  that  those  early  writers  who  treated  of 
the  discovery  aud  settlement  of  America  have  not  given  us 
more  particular  and  candid  accounts  of  the  remarkable  charac- 
ters tliat  flourished  in  savage  life.  The  scanty  anecdotes  whicb 
have  reached  us  aie  full  of  peculiarity  and  interest ;  they  fur- 
nish u&  with  nearer  glimpses  of  human  nature,  and  show  what 
man  is  in  a  comparatively  primitive  state,  aud  what  he  owes  to 
civilization.  There  is  something  of  the  charm  of  discovery 
in  lighting  upon  these  wild  and  unexplored  tracts  of  human 
nature ;  in  witnessing,  as  it  were,  the  native  growth  of  moral 
sentiment ;  and  perceiving  those  generous  and  romantic  quali- 
ties which  have  been  aitilicially  cultivated  by  society,  vegetating 
in  spontaneous  hardihood  and  rude  magnificence. 

In  civilized  life,  wheie  the  happiness,  and  indeed  almost  the 
existence,  of  man  depends  so  much  upon  the  opinion  of  his 
fellow-men,  he  is  constantly  acting  a  studied  part.  The  bold 
aud  peculiar  ti-aits  of  native  character  are  refined  away,  or 
softened  down  by  the  levelling  influence  of  what  is  termed 
good  breeding ;  and  he  practises  so  many  petty  deceptions,  and 
affects  so  many  generous  sentiments,  for  the  purposes  of  popu- 
larity, tliat  it  is  ditlicult  to  distinguish  his  real  from  his  arti- 


'!    rj 


1 

.  V  B«H' 

,  1 

H>  ll^B 

-i 

lilll 

i 

yu 

220 


THE  SKETCir-noOK. 


flcial  character.  The  Indian,  on  the  contrarj',  free  from  tlio 
restraints  and  refinements  of  polished  life,  and,  in  a  f^reiit 
degree,  a  solitary  and  independent  being,  obeys  the  impulses 
of  his  inclination  or  the  dictates  of  his  judgment ;  and  thus  tho 
attributes  of  his  nature,  being  freely  indulged,  grow  singly 
great  and  striking.  Society  is  like  a  lawn,  where  every  rougli- 
ness  is  smoothed,  every  bramble  eradicated,  and  where  tlu;  eye 
is  delighted  by  the  smiling  verdure  of  a  velvet  surface ;  he. 
however,  who  would  study  Nature  in  its  wildness  and  varii'ty, 
must  plunge  into  the  forest,  must  explore  the  glen,  must  tstcni 
the  torrent,  and  dare  the  precipice. 

These  reflections  arose  on  casually  looking  through  a  volume 
of  early  colonial  history,  wherein  are  reconUd,  with  grout  bit- 
terness, the  outrages  of  the  Indians,  and  their  wars  with  tlie 
settlers  of  New-Kiiglaud.  It  is  painful  to  perceive,  evi'u  from 
these  partial  narratives,  how  the  footsteps  of  civilization  in;i\ 
be  traced  in  the  l»Io()d  of  the  al)oiigines  ;  liow  easily  tlie  eulo- 
uisls  were  iiuyvod  to  hostility  by  tiie  lust  of  coiijiU'st  ;  lio.v 
uiereiiess  and  exterminating  was  their  warfare.  Tlje  iui:igin;i- 
tion  shrinks  at  the  idea,  how  niany  iutellectUMl  l)eiiigs  w-vn) 
Iinntrd  from  the  earth  —  how  in  my  br-ive  and  noble  lu'.-irts,  oi" 
Nnlure's  sterling  coinage,  were  l)rokeu  down  and  tiumiilcd  in 
the  dust! 

.'■iich  was  the  fate  of  rmup  of  Pokanoket,  an  Indian  war- 
rior, whose  name  was  once  a  terror  throughout  JMassticiuisetts 
and  Connecticut.  He  was  the  most  distinguished  of  a  nuinl)"r 
of  contemporary  Sachems,  who  reigned  over  the  Tequods,  tbe 
JN'arr.igansets,  the  Wampanoags,  and  the  other  eastern  trib 
nt,  the  time  of  the  first  settlement  of  New-England  :  a  band  o 
native  untaught  heroes;  who  made  the  most  generous  struggle 
of  wliich  human  nature  is  capable  ;  fighting  to  the  last  gasp  in 
!ho  cause  of  their  country,  without  a  hope  of  victory  or  a 
tliought  of  renown.  Worthy  of  an  age  of  poetry,  and  fit  sub- 
jects for  local  story  and  romantic  fiction,  they  have  left  scarcely 
any  authentic  traces  on  the  page  of  history,  but  stalk,  like  gi- 
gantic shadows,  in  the  dim  twilight  of  tradition.^ 

When  the  Pilgrims,  as  the  Plymouth  settlers  are  called  by 
their  descendants,  first  took  refuge  on  the  shores  of  the  New 
World,  from  the  religions  peraecutions  of  the  Old,  their  situa- 
tion was  to  the  last  degree  gloomy  and  disheartening.  Few  in 
number,  and  that  number  rapidly  perishing  away  through  sick* 


<  While  correcting  the  pruof-HhectB  of  tbU  article,  the  author  ia  iDforraed,  that  • 
celebrated  Kngliiib  puet  ban  nearly  tinliheil  Ml  heroio  poem  on  the  alury  of  I'hilip  ol 
Pokaiiuket. 


PniLfP  OF  POKANOKET. 


001 


Iho 

rroat 

ilscs 

s  tlio 

iiigly 

>iigli. 

eyo 

he, 

stciil 


III 


ncsR  and  Imrdshipf ;  anrromuled  by  a  howling  wiUlcincss  and 
savage  tiil)es  ;  exposed  to  tlie  rigors  of  an  almost  arctic  win- 
ter, and  tlie  vioissilndes  of  an  ever-shifting  climate  ;  their  mind? 
were  filled  with  doleful  forebodings,  and  nothing  preserve(\ 
them  fro(n  sinking  into  despondency  but  the  strong  excitement 
of  religious  enthusiasm.  In  this  forlorn  situation  they  were 
visited  by  Massasoit,  chief  Sagamore  of  the  Wampauoags,  B 
powerful  chief,  who  reigned  over  a  great  extent  of  coiuitry. 
Instead  of  taking  advant  ge  of  the  scanty  number  of  the  stran- 
gers, and  expelling  them  from  his  territories  into  which  they  had 
intruded,  he  seemed  at  once  to  conceive  for  them  a  generous 
friendship,  and  extended  towards  them  the  rights  of  primitive 
hospitality.  He  came  early  in  the  spring  to  their  settlement 
of  New-Plymouth,  attended  by  a  mere  handful  of  followers; 
entered  into  a  solemn  league  of  peace  and  amity ;  sold  them  a 
l)ortion  of  the  soil,  and  i)romlsed  to  secure  for  them  the  good- 
will of  his  savage  allies.  Whatever  may  be  said  of  Indian 
perfidy,  it  is  certain  that  the  integrit}'  and  good  faith  of  Mas- 
sasoit  have  never  been  impeached.  He  contmued  a  firm  and 
magnanimous  friend  of  the  white  men ;  suffering  them  to  ex- 
tend their  possessions,  and  to  strengthen  themselves  in  the 
land  ;  and  betraying  no  jealousy  of  their  increasing  power  and 
prosperity.  Shortly  before  his  death,  he  came  once  more  to 
New-Plymouth,  with  his  son  Alexander,  for  the  purpose  of 
renewing  the  covenant  of  peace,  and  of  securing  it  to  his  pos- 
terity. 

At  this  conference,  he  endeavored  to  protect  the  religion  of 
his  forefathers  from  the  encroaching  zeal  of  the  missionaries ; 
and  stipulated  that  no  further  attempt  should  be  made  to  draw 
off  his  people  from  their  ancient  faith  ;  but,  finding  the  English 
obstinately  opposed  to  any  such  condition,  he  mildl}'  relin- 
quished the  demand.  Almost  the  last  act  of  his  life  was  to 
bring  his  two  sons,  Alexander  and  Philip  (as  they  had  been 
named  by  the  English)  to  the  residence  of  a  principal  settler, 
reconnnending  mutual  kindness  and  confidence  ;  and  entreating 
that  the  same  love  and  amity  which  had  existed  between  the 
white  men  and  himself,  might  be  continued  afterwards  with  his 
children.  The  gootl  old  Sachem  died  in  peace,  and  was  happily 
gathered  to  his  fathers  before  sorrow  came  upon  his  tribe  ;  his 
children  remained  behind  to  experience  the  ingratitude  of  white 
men. 

His  eldest  son,  Alexander,  succeeded  him.  He  was  of  a  quick 
and  iiupi'tuous  temper,  and  proudly  tenacious  of  his  hereditary 
rights  and  dignity.     The  intrusive  policy  and  dictatorial  con- 


•222 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK. 


i 


duct  of  the  strangers  excited  his  indignation ;  and  he  beheld 
•  with  uneasiness  their  exterminating  wars  with  the  neighboring 
tribes.  He  was  doomed  soon  to  incur  their  hostility,  being 
accused  of  plotting  with  the  Narragansetts  to  rise  against  tlie 
English  and  drive  them  from  the  land.  It  is  impossible  to  suy 
whether  this  accusation  was  warranted  by  facts,  or  was  grouuiUd 
on  mere  suspicions  It  is  evident,  liowever,  by  the  violent  and 
overbearing  meaaures  of  the  settlers,  that  they  had  by  this  time 
begun  to  feel  conscious  of  the  rapid  increase  of  their  power, 
and  to  grow  harsh  and  inconsiderate  in  their  treatment  of  the 
natives.  They  despatched  an  armed  force  to  seize  upon  Alex- 
ander, and  to  bring  him  before  theii  courts.  He  was  traced  to 
his  woodland  haunts,  and  surprised  at  a  hunting  house,  where 
he  was  reposing  with  a  band  of  his  followers,  unarmed,  after  the 
toils  of  the  chase.  The  suddenness  of  his  arrest,  and  the  out- 
rage offered  to  his  sovereign  dignity,  so  preyed  upon  the  irasci- 
ble feelings  of  this  proud  savage,  as  to  throw  him  into  a  raging 
fever ;  he  was  permitted  to  return  home  on  condition  of  sending 
his  son  as  a  pledge  for  his  reappearance ;  but  the  blow  he  had 
received  was  fatal,  and  before  he  had  reached  his  home  he  fell 
a  victim  to  the  agonies  of  a  wounded  spirit. 

The  successor  of  Alexander  was  Metacomet,  or  King  Philip, 
as  he  was  called  by  the  settlers,  on  account  of  his  lofty  spirit 
and  ambitious  temper.  These,  together  with  his  well-known 
energy  and  enterprise,  had  rendered  him  an  object  of  great 
jealousy  and  apprehension,  and  he  was  accused  of  having  always 
cherished  a  secret  and  implacable  hostility  towards  the  whites. 
Such  may  very  probably,  and  very  naturally,  have  been  the 
case.  He  considered  them  as  originally  but  mere  intruders  into 
the  country,  who  had  presumed  ujion  indulgence,  and  were  ex- 
tending an  influence  baneful  to  savage  life.  He  saw  the  wliole 
race  of  his  countrymen  melting  before  them  from  the  face  of 
the  earth ;  their  territories  slipping  from  their  hands,  and  their 
tribes  becoming  feeble,  scattered,  and  dependent.  It  may  be 
said  that  the  soil  was  originally  purchased  by  the  settlers ;  but 
who  does  not  know  the  nature  of  Indian  purchases,  in  the  early 
periods  of  colonization  ?  The  Europeans  always  made  thrifty 
bargains,  through  their  superior  adroitness  in  traffic ;  and  they 
gained  vast  accessions  of  territory,  by  easily-provoked  hostili- 
ties. An  uncultivated  savage  is  never  a  nice  inquirer  into  the 
refinements  of  law,  by  which  an  injury  may  be  gradually  and 
icgally  inflicted.  Leading  facts  are  all  by  which  he  judges ; 
and  it  was  enough  for  Philip  to  know,  that  before  the  intrusion 
of  the  Europeans  his  countrymen  were  lords  of  the  soil,  and 


PHILIP   OF  POKANOKET. 


229 


leltl 


that  now  they  were  becoming  vagalx>nds  in  the  land  of  their 
fathers. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  liis  feelings  of  general  hostility, 
aucl  his  particular  indignation  at  the  treatment  of  his  brother, 
he  suppressed  them  for  the  present ;  renewed  the  contract  with 
the  settlers,  and  resided  peaceably  for  many  years  at  Pokano- 
ket,  or,  as  it  was  called  by  the  English,  Mount  Hope,*  the  an- 
cient seat  of  dominion  of  his  tribe.  Suspicions,  however, 
which  were  at  first  but  vague  and  indefinite,  began  to  acquire 
form  and  substance ;  and  lie  was  at  length  charged  with  at- 
tempting to  instigate  the  various  eastern  tribes  to  rise  at  once, 
and,  by  a  simultanoous  effort,  to  throw  off  the  yoke  of  their 
oppressors.  It  is  diflicnlt  at  this  distant  period  to  assign  the 
proper  credit  due  to  these  early  accusations  against  the  Indians. 
Tliere  was  a  proneness  to  suspicion,  and  an  aptness  to  acta 
of  violence  on  the  part  of  tlie  whites,  that  gave  weight  and 
importance  to  every  idle  tale.  Informers  abounded,  where  tale- 
bearing met  with  countenance  and  reward  ;  and  the  sword  was 
readily  unsheathed,  when  its  success  was  certain,  and  it  carved 
out  empire. 

The  only  |X)sitive  evidence  on  record  against  Philip  is  the 
accusation  of  one  Sausaman,  a  renegado  Indian,  whose  natural 
cunning  had  \yeen  quickened  by  a  partial  education  which  he 
had  received  among  tiie  settlers.  He  changed  his  faith  and  his 
allegiance  two  or  three  times,  with  a  facility  that  evinced  the 
looseness  of  his  principles.  He  had  acted  for  some  time  as 
Philip's  confidential  sc^'etary  and  counsellor,  and  had  enjo3'ed 
his  bounty  and  protection.  Finding,  however,  that  the  clouds 
of  adversity  were  gathering  round  his  patron,  he  abandoned 
his  service  and  went  over  to  the  whites ;  and,  in  order  to  gain 
their  favor,  charged  his  former  benefactor  with  plotting  against 
their  safety.  A  rigorous  investigation  took  place.  Philip  and 
several  of  his  subjects  submitted  to  be  examined,  but  nothing 
was  proved  aguinst  them.  The  settlere,  however,  had  now 
gone  too  far  to  retract ;  they  had  previously  determined  that 
Pliilip  was  a  dangerous  neighbor ;  they  had  publicly  evinced 
their  distrust ;  and  had  done  enough  to  insure  his  hostility ; 
according,  therefore,  to  the  usual  mode  of  reasoning  in  these 
cases,  his  destruction  had  become  necessary  to  their  security. 
Sausaman,  the  treacherous  informer,  was  shortly  afterwards 
found  dead  in  a  pond,  having  fallen  a  victim  to  the  vengeance  of 
his  tribe.     Three  Indians,  one  of  whom  was  a  f*     jd  and  counsel* 


>  Horn  Bri:«ttil,  Rhode  Ulaud. 


!    t 


i     '» 


Ih; 


< 


224 


THE  SKETCn-BOOK. 


lor  of  Philip,  were  apprehended  and  tried,  and,  on  the  testimony 
of  one  very  questionable  witness,  were  condemned  and  executed 
as  murderers. 

This  treatment  of  his  subjects  and  ignominious  punishment 
of  his  friend,  outraged  the  pride  and  exasperated  the  passions 
of  Philip.  The  bolt  which  had  fallen  thus  at  his  very  foot, 
awakened  him  to  the  gathering  storm,  and  he  determined  to 
trust  himself  no  longer  in  the  power  of  the  white  men.  The 
fate  of  his  insulted  and  broken-hearted  brother  still  rankled  in 
his  mind ;  and  he  had  a  further  warning  in  the  tragical  story  of 
Miantonimo,  a  great  sachem  of  the  Narragansets,  who,  al'toi 
manfully  lacing  his  accusers  before  a  tribunal  of  the  colonists, 
exculpating  himself  from  a  charge  of  conspiracy,  and  receiving 
assurances  of  amity,  had  been  pertidioiisiy  dof^patched  at  their  in- 
stigation. Philip,  therefore,  gathc-red  hi  =  lighting  men  about  him  ; 
persuaded  all  strangers  that  lie  could,  to  join  his  cause  ;  sent  the 
women  and  children  to  the  Narragansets  for  safety ;  and  wlier- 
ever  lie  appeared,  was  continually  surrounded  by  armed  warriors. 

AVhen  tiie  two  parties  were  thus  in  a  state  of  distrust  and 
irritation,  the  le.ist  spark  was  sufJicieiit  to  set  them  in  a  tlame. 
Tlio  Indians,  having  weapons  in  their  hands,  grew  misciiievons, 
and  committed  various  petty  depredations.  In  one  of  tiuir 
maraudings,  a  ■v'.'firrinr  w:is  fired  on  and  killed  by  a  feclLkr, 
This  was  the  signal  for  ©iien  hostilities ;  the  Indians  pressed  i  > 
revenge  the  deatli  of  their  comrade,  and  the  alarm  of  w.w 
resounded  thiough  the  riyniouth  colony. 

In  the  early  chronicles  of  these  daik  and  molanciioly  tin<es, 
we  meet  with  many  indications  of  the  diseased  state  of  tlie 
public  mind.  The  gloom  of  religious  abstraction,  and  tlie  wild- 
ness  of  their  situation,  among  trackless  forests  and  savage 
tribes,  had  disposed  the  colonists  to  superstitious  fancies,  and 
had  filled  their  imaginations  with  the  frightful  chimeras  of 
witchcraft  and  speetrology.  They  were  much  given  also  to  » 
belief  in  omens.  The  troubles  with  Philip  and  his  Indians 
were  preceded,  we  are  toid,  by  a  variety  of  those  awful  warn- 
ings which  forerun  great  and  public  calamities.  The  peifoct 
form  of  an  Indian  bow  appeared  in  the  air  at  New-Plymouth, 
which  was  looked  upon  by  the  inhabitants  as  a  "  prodigious 
apparition."  At  Hadley,  Northampton,  and  other  towns  in 
their  neighborhood,  "  was  heard  the  report  of  a  great  piece  of 
ordnance,  with  tlie  shaking  of  the  earth  and  a  considerable 
echo."*     Others  were  alarmed  on  a  still  sunshiny  morning,  by 


>  Tlie  Uev.  lucrewM  Mathei'o  Uiatory. 


PHILIP   OF  POEANOKET. 


225 


tl 


nony 
nited 

nent 
sions 
feet, 
to 
The 
(1  in 
yof 
sifter 
ists, 
ving 
r  in- 
iiii ; 
It  tin; 
ivlier- 
rlors. 
:  and 
anio. 
voiis, 
their 
tuer. 
e>!   i  J 
war 


the  discharge  of  guns  and  rauskets ;  bullets  seemed  to  whistle 
past  them,  and  tho  noise  of  drums  resounded  in  the  air,  seem 
ing  to  pass  away  to  the  westward  ;  others  fancied  that  they 
licard  the  galloiiing  of  horses  over  .their  heads;  and  certain 
monstrous  l)irths  wiiieh  tock  place  about  the  time,  tilled  the 
superstitious  in  some  towns  with  doleful  forebodings.  Many 
of  these  portentous  sights  and  sounds  may  be  ascribed  to 
natural  phenomena ;  to  tiie  northern  lights  which  occur  vividly 
in  tliose  latitudes  ;  the  meteors  which  explode  in  the  air ;  the 
casual  rushing  of  a  blast  through  the  top  branches  of  the  forest ; 
the  ei'ash  of  falling  trees  or  disrupted  rocks  ;  and  to  those  other 
uncouth  sounds  and  echoes,  which  will  sometimes  strike  the 
car  so  strangely  amidst  the  profound  stillness  of  woodland  soli- 
tudes. Tliese  may  have  startled  some  melanciiol^'  imaginations, 
may  have  been  exaggerated  by  the  love  for  the  marvellous,  and 
listened  to  with  that  avidity  with  which  we  devour  whatever 
is  fearful  and  mysterious.  The  universal  currency  of  these 
siii)erstitious  fancies,  and  the  grave  record  made  of  them  by  one 
of  tlie  learned  men  of  the  lay,  are  strongly  characteristic  of  the 
times. 

The  nature  of  tiie  contest  that  ensued  was  such  as  too  often 
distinguisiies  the  warfare  between  civilized  men  and  savages. 
On  the  part  of  the  whites,  it  was  conducted  with  superior  skill 
and  success  ,•  but  with  a  wastefulness  of  the  blood,  and  a  disre- 
gard of  the  natural  rights  of  their  antagonists :  on  the  part  of 
the  Indians  it  was  wiged  with  the  desperation  of  men  fearless 
of  deatli,  and  who  haii  nothing  to  expect  from  peace,  but  hu- 
miliation, dependence,  and  decay. 

The  events  of  the  war  are  transmitted  to  us  by  a  worthy 
clergyman  of  the  time,  who  dwells  with  horror  and  indignation 
on  every  iiostilc  act  of  tlie  Indians,  however  justifiable,  whilst 
he  mentions  with  api)lause  the  most  sanguinary  atrocities  of 
tli(!  wiiiies.  Piiilip  is  reviled  as  a  murderer  and  a  traitor; 
without  considering  that  he  was  a  truc-Ijorn  prince,  gallantly 
fighting  at  tiie  head  of  his  subjects  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of  his 
family  ;  to  retrieve  the  tottering  power  of  his  line ;  and  to  de- 
liver Ills  native  lai  d  from  the  oppression  of  usurj)ing  strangers. 

The  project  of  a  wide  and  sinmltaneous  revolt,  if  such  had 
really  been  formed,  was  worthy  of  a  capacious  mind,  and,  had 
it  not  been  prematurely  discoveretl,  might  have  been  over- 
whelming in  its  consecpiences.  Tlie  war  that  actually  broke 
out  was  hut  a  war  of  detail ;  a  mere  succession  of  casual  ex- 
ploits and  unconnected  enterprises.  Still  it  sets  forth  the 
military  genius  and  daring  prowess  of  Philip  ;  and  wherever,  io 


*  ^ 


?    'i 


Amimt^nmt  i  r   '  ■   i^TilMir  t»  -. 


226 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


the  prejudiced  and  passionate  narrations  that  have  been  giveu 
of  it,  we  can  arrive  at  simple  facts,  we  find  him  displaying  a 
vigorous  mind  ;  a  fertility  of  expedients  ;  a  contempt  of  suflfer- 
ing  and  hardsliip ;  and  an  unconcjuerable  resolution,  that  com- 
mand our  sympathy  and  applause. 

Driven  from  his  paternal  domains  at  Mount  Hope,  he  threw 
himself  into  the  depths  of  those  vast  and  trackless  forests  that 
skirted  the  settlements,  and  were  almost  impervious  to  any 
thing  but  a  wild  beast  or  an  Indian.  Here  he  gathered  to- 
gether his  forces,  like  the  storm  accumulating  its  stores  of  mis- 
chief  in  the  bosom  of  the  thunder-cloud,  and  would  suddenly 
emerge  at  a  time  and  place  least  expected,  carrying  havoc  and 
dismay  into  the  villages.  There  were  now  and  then  indications} 
of  these  impending  ravages,  that  filled  the  minds  of  the  colo- 
nists with  awe  and  apprehension.  The  report  of  a  distant  gun 
would  perhaps  be  heard  from  the  solitary  woodland,  where 
there  was  known  to  be  no  white  man  ;  the  cattle  which  had 
been  wandering  in  the  woods  would  sometimes  return  home 
wounded ;  or  an  Indian  or  two  would  be  seen  lurking  about 
the  skirts  of  the  forest,  and  suddenly  disappearing ;  as  the 
lightning  will  sometimes  be  seen  playing  silently  about  the  edge 
of  the  cloud  that  is  b'  ewing  up  the  tcmpost. 

Though  sometimes  pursued,  and  evon  surrounded  by  tho 
settlers,  3'et  Philip  as  often  escaped  almost  miraculously  from 
their  foils ;  and  plunging  into  the  wilderness,  would  be  lost  to 
all  search  or  inquiry  until  he  again  emerged  at  some  fa."  dis- 
tant quarte'",  laying  the  country  desolite.  Among  his  f trong 
holds  were  the  great  swamps  or  mon;3ses,  which  excC^d  in 
some  parts  of  New-Kngland  ;  compose  .1  of  loose  bogs  of  deep 
black  mud ;  perplexed  witli  thickets,  brumbies,  rank  weeds, 
the  shattered  and  moi'l'UMing  trunks  of  fallen  trees,  over- 
shadowed  by  lugiil)rious  hemlocks.  The  uncm'tain  footing  and 
the  tangled  mazes  of  these  shaggy  wilds,  rendered  them  almost 
mpraeticable  to  the  white  man,  though  the  Indian  could 
thrid  their  labyrinths  with  the  agility  of  a  deer.  Into  one  ( \' 
theoe,  the  great  swamp  of  Pocasset  Neck,  was  Philip  ouco 
.riven  with  a  band  of  his  followers.  The  En;j;lish  did  not  daro 
to  pursue  him,  fearing  to  ventiuii  into  tliese  dark  and  frightful 
iccesses,  where  they  might  peri!>h  in  fens  and  miry  pits,  or  bo 
r.hot  down  by  lurking  foes.  They  therefore  invested  the  en- 
ti  ance  to  the  neck,  and  began  to  build  a  tcrt,  with  the  thought 
of  starving  out  the  foe ;  but  Philip  and  his  warriors  wafted 
themselves  on  a  raft  over  an  arm  of  the  sea,  in  the  dead  of 
night,  leavins  the  women   and  children  behind ;   and  escaped 


PHILIP   OF  POKANOKET. 


22T 


away  to  the  westward,  kindling  the  flames  of  war  among  the 
tribes  of  Massachusetts  and  the  Nipmuck  count-ry,  and  threat- 
ening the  colony  of  Connecticut. 

In  this  way  Philip  became  a  theme  of  universal  apprehen- 
sion. The  mystery  in  which  he  was  enveloped  exaggerated 
his  real  terrors.  He  was  an  evil  that  walked  in  darkness  ;  whose 
coming  none  could  foresee,  and  against  which  none  knew 
when  to  be  on  the  alert.  The  whole  country  abounded  with 
rumors  and  alarms.  Philip  seemed  almost  possessed  of  ubiq- 
uity :  for,  in  whatever  part  of  the  widely  extended  frontier 
an  irruption  from  thp  forest  took  place,  Philip  was  said  to  be 
its  leader.  Many  superstitious  notions  also  were  circulated 
concerning  him.  He  was  said  to  deal  in  necromanc}',  and  to 
he  attended  by  an  old  Indian  witch  or  prophetess,  whom  he 
consulted,  and  who  assisted  him  by  her  charms  and  incanta- 
tions. This  indeed  was  frequently  the  case  with  Indian  clr.efs ; 
either  through  their  own  credulity,  or  to  act  upon  that  of  their 
followers :  and  the  influence  of  the  prophet  and  the  dreamer 
over  Indian  superstition  has  been  fully  evidenced  in  recent 
instances  of  savage  warfare. 

At  the  time  that  Philip  effected  his  escape  from  Pocasset, 
his  fortunes  were  in  a  desperate  condition.  His  forces  had 
l)eon  thinned  by  repeated  fights,  and  he  had  lost  almost  the 
wliole  of  his  resources.  In  this  time  of  adversity  he  found  a 
faitliful  friend  in  Cauouchet,  Chief  Sachem  of  all  the  Narra- 
gansets.  He  was  the  son  and  heir  of  Miautonimo,  the  great 
Sacliem,  who,  as  already  mentioned,  after  an  honorable  ac- 
quital  of  the  charge  of  conspiracy,  had  been  privately  put  to 
death  at  the  perfidious  instigations  of  the  settlers.  *"  He  was 
the  heir,"  says  the  old  chronicler,  "  of  all  his  father's  pride  and 
insolence,  as  well  as  of  hiti  malice  towards  the  English;"  he 
certainly  was  the  heir  of  his  insults  and  injuries,  and  the 
legitimate  avenger  of  his  murder.  Though  he  had  forborne  to 
take  an  active  part  in  this  hopeless  war,  yet  he  received  Philip 
and  his  broken  forces  with  open  arms ;  and  gave  them  the 
most  generous  countenance  and  support.  This  at  once  drew 
upon  him  the  hostility  of  the  English ;  and  it  was  determined 
to  strike  a  signal  blow,  that  should  involve  both  the  Sachems 
in  one  common  ruin.  A  great  force  was,  therefore,  gathered 
together  from  Massachusetts,  Plymouth,  and  Connecticut,  and 
was  sent  into  the  Jsarraganset  country  in  the  depth  of  winter, 
when  the  swamps,  being  frozen  and  leafless,  could  be  traversed 
with  comparative  facility,  luid  would  no  longer  afford  dar*-  and 
impenetrable  1  astuesses  to  the  Indians. 


:  iM! 


\\ 


= . .  i  /  »,  t_:^-' 


228 


THE  SKETCII-nOOK. 


?! 


Apprehensive  of  attack,  Canonchet  had  conveyed  the  ^rcatei 
pait  of  his  stores,  tofjether  witli  the  old,  the  iiifinn,  the  women 
and  cliil(hen  of  his  tribe,  to  a  strong  fortress ;  where  he  and 
Philip  had  likewise  drawn  up  the  flower  of  their  forces.  This 
fortress,  deemed  by  the  Indians  impregnable,  was  situated 
upon  a  rising  mound  o'*  kind  of  island,  of  five  or  six  acres,  in 
the  midst  of  a  swamp ;  it  was  constructed  with  a  degree  of 
judgment  and  skill  vastly  superior  to  what  is  usually  displayed 
in  Indian  f<'rti(ication,  and  indicative  of  the  martial  genius  ot 
these  two  chieftains. 

Guided  by  a  renegado  Indian,  the  English  penetrated,  through 
December  snows,  to  this  stronghold,  and  came  ui)on  the  garri- 
son b}-  surprise.  The  light  was  lierce  and  tumultuous.  The 
assailants  were  repulsed  in  their  first  attack,  and  several  of 
their  bravest  officers  were  shot  down  in  the  act  of  storming  the 
fortress,  sword  in  hand.  The  assault  was  renewed  with  greater 
success.  A  lodgement  was  effected.  The  Indians  were  driven 
from  one  post  to  another.  They  disputed  their  groinul  inch  by 
inch,  fighting  with  the  fury  of  despair.  Most  of  their  veterans 
were  cut  to  i)icces ;  and  after  a  long  and  bloody  battle,  Philip 
and  Canonchet,  with  a  handful  of  surviving  warriors,  retreated 
from  the  fort,  and  took  i\  aige  in  the  thickets  of  the  surround- 
ing forest. 

The  victors  set  fire  to  the  wigwams  and  the  fort ;  the  whole 
was  soon  in  a  blaze  ;  many  of  the  old  men,  the  women  and  the 
children,  perished  in  the  flames.  This  last  outrage  overcame 
even  the  stoicism  of  the  savage.  The  neijrhboring  woods  re- 
sounded with  the  yells  of  rage  and  despair,  uttered  by  the  fugi- 
tive warriors  as  they  beheld  the  destruction  of  their  dwellings, 
and  heard  the  agonizing  cries  of  their  wives  and  offspring. 
"The  burning  of  the  wigwams,"  says  a  contemi)orary  writer, 
"  the  shrieks  and  cries  of  the  women  and  children,  and  the  yell- 
ing of  the  warriors,  '  xliiljited  a  most  horrible  and  affecting 
scene,  so  that  it  greatly  moved  some  of  the  soldiers."  The 
same  writer  cautiously  adds,  "•  they  were  in  much  doubt  then, 
and  afterwards  seriously  intpiired,  whether  burning  their  ene- 
niies  alive  could  be  consistent  with  humanity,  and  the  benevo- 
lent principles  of  the  gospel."  * 

The  fate  of  the  brave  and  generous  Canonchet  is  worthy  of 
particular  mention  :  the  last  scene  of  his  life  is  one  of  the 
nobl  ,st  instances  on  record  of   Indian  niagnanimity- 

Broken  down  in  his  p«)wrr  nud  resources  by  this  signal  de« 

I  US.  of  the  Rev.  W.  Ruggles. 


PHILIP  OF  POKANOKET. 


229 


!atei 
)mea 
and 
This 
atod 
s,  in 
e  of 
ayod 
ot 


feat,  yet  faithful  to  his  ally  and  to  the  hapless  cause  which  he 
bad  espoused,  he  rejected  all  overtures  of  peace,  offered  on  con- 
dition of  betraying  Philip  and  his  followers,  and  declared  that 
"  he  would  light  it  out  to  the  last  man,  rather  than  become  a 
servant  to  the  English."  His  home  being  destroyed ;  his  coun- 
try harassed  and  laid  waste  by  the  incursions  of  the  conquerors ; 
he  was  obliged  to  wander  away  to  the  banks  of  the  Connecti- 
cut ;  where  he  formed  a  rallying  point  to  the  whole  body  of 
western  Indians,  and  laid  waste  several  of  the  English  settle- 
ments. 

Early  in  the  spring,  he  departed  on  a  hazardous  expedition, 
with  only  thirty  chosen  men,  to  penetrate  to  Seaconck,  in  the 
vicinity  of  Mount  Hope,  and  to  procure  seed-corn  to  plant  for 
the  Hustouance  of  his  troops.  This  little  band  of  adventurers 
had  passed  safely  through  the  Pequod  country,  and  were  in  the 
centre  of  the  Narraganset,  resting  at  some  wigwams  near  Paw- 
tucket  river,  when  an  alarm  was  given  of  an  approaching 
enemy.  Having  but  seven  men  by  him  at  the  time,  Canonchct 
despatched  two  of  them  to  the  top  of  a  neighboring  hill,  to 
bring  intelligence  of  the  foe. 

Panic-struck  b}'  the  appearance  of  a  troop  of  English  and 
Indians  rapidly  advancing,  they  fled  in  breathless  terror  past 
their  chieftain,  without  stopping  to  inform  him  of  the  danger. 
Cauonchet  sent  another  scout,  who  did  the  same.  He  then 
sent  two  more,  one  of  whom,  hurrying  back  in  confusion  and 
affright,  told  him  that  the  whole  British  army  was  at  hand. 
Cauonchet  saw  there  was  no  choice  but  immediate  flight.  He 
attempted  to  escape  round  the  hill,  but  was  perceived  and  hotly 
pursued  by  the  hostile  Indians,  and  a  few  of  the  fleetest  of  the 
English.  Finding  the  swiftest  pursuer  close  upon  his  heels,  he 
ilirew  off,  first  his  blanket,  then  his  silver-laced  coat  and  belt 
of  peag,  by  which  his  enemies  knew  him  to  be  Cauonchet,  and 
redoubled  the  eagerness  of  pursuit. 

At  length,  in  dashing  through  the  river,  his  foot  slipped  upon 
a  stone,  and  he  fell  so  deep  as  to  wet  liis  gun.  This  accident 
so  struck  him  with  despair,  that,  as  he  afterwards  confessed, 
"  liis  heart  and  his  bov^els  turned  within  him,  and  he  became 
like  a  rotten  stick,  void  of  strength." 

To  such  a  degree  was  he  unnerved,  that,  being  seized  by  a 
Pequod  Indian  within  a  short  distance  of  the  river,  he  made  no 
resistance,  though  a  man  of  great  vigor  of  body  and  boldness 
of  heart.  But  on  being  made  prisoner,  the  whole  pride  of  his 
spirit  arose  within  him ;  and  from  that  moment,  we  find,  in  the 
anecdotes  given  by  his  enemies,  nothing  but  repeated   flashes 


'I  ii 


mH/m  »r,'-*  <50»'*'  •*- 


230 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


f    1 


of  elevated  and  prince-like  heroism.  Being  questioned  by  one 
of  the  English  who  first  came  up  with  him,  and  who  had  not 
attained  his  twenty-second  year,  the  proud-hearted  warrior, 
looking  with  lofty  contempt  upon  his  youthful  countenance,  re- 
plied, "  You  are  a  child — you  cannot  understand  matters  of 
war  —  let  your  brother  or  your  chief  come  —  him  will  I  answer." 

Though  repeated  offers  were  made  to  him  of  his  life,  on  con- 
dition of  submitting  with  his  nation  to  the  English,  yet  he 
rejected  them  with  disdain,  and  refused  to  send  any  proposals 
of  the  kind  to  the  great  body  of  his  subjects ;  saying,  that  he 
knew  none  of  them  would  comply.  Being  reproached  with  his 
breach  of  faith  towards  the  whites ;  his  boast  that  he  woi:ld  not 
deliver  up  a  Wampanoag,  nor  the  parings  of  a  Wampanoag's 
nail ;  and  his  threat  that  he  would  burn  the  English  alive  in 
their  houses,  he  disdained  to  justify  himself,  haughtily  answer- 
ing that  others  were  as  forward  for  the  war  as  himself,  *'  and 
he  desired  to  hear  no  more  thereof." 

So  noble  and  unshaken  a  spirit,  so  true  a  fidelity  to  his  cause 
and  his  friend,  might  have  touched  the  feelings  of  the  generous 
and  the  brave  ;  but  Canonchet  was  an  Indian ;  a  being  towards 
whom  war  had  no  courtesy,  humanity  no  law,  religion  no  com- 
passion —  he  was  condemned  to  die.  The  last  words  of  his  that 
are  recorded,  are  worthy  the  greatness  of  his  soul.  When  sen- 
tence of  death  was  passed  upon  him,  he  observed,  '■''  that  he 
liked  it  well,  for  he  should  die  before  his  heart  was  soft,  or  he 
had  spoken  any  thing  unworthy  of  himself."  His  enemies  gave 
him  the  death  of  a  soldier,  for  he  was  shot  at  Stoningham,  by 
three  young  Sachems  of  his  own  rank. 

The  defeat  of  the  Narraganset  fortress,  and  the  death  of 
Canonchet,  were  fatal  blows  to  the  fortunes  of  King  Philip. 
He  made  an  ineffectual  attempt  to  raise  a  head  of  war,  by  stir- 
ring up  the  Mohawks  to  take  arms ;  but  thongh  possessed  of 
the  native  talents  of  a  statesman,  his  arts  were  counteracted  by 
the  superior  arts  of  his  enlightened  enemies,  and  the  terror  of 
their  warlike  skill  began  to  subdue  the  resolution  of  the  neigh- 
boring tribes.  The  unfortunate  chieftain  saw  himself  daily 
stripped  of  power,  and  his  ranks  rapidly  thinning  around  him. 
Some  were  suborned  by  the  whites ;  others  fell  victims  to  hun- 
ger and  fatigue,  and  to  the  frequent  attacks  by  which  they  were 
harassed.  His  stores  were  all  captured;  his  chosen  friends 
were  swept  away  from  before  his  eyes  ;  his  uncle  was  shot  down 
by  his  side ;  his  sister  was  carried  into  captivity ;  and  in  one  of 
his  narrow  escapes  he  was  compelled  to  leave  his  beloved  wife 
and  only  sou  to  the  mercy  of  the  enemy.     '*  His  ruin,"  says 


the 


PaiLIP  OF  POKANOKET. 


281 


ioe  historian,  "  being  thus  gradually  carried  on,  his  misery  was 
not  prevented,  but  augmented  thereby ;  being  himself  made  ac- 
quainted with  the  sense  and  experimental  feeling  of  the  cap- 
tivity of  his  children,  loss  of  friends,  slaughter  of  his  subjects, 
bereavement  of  all  family  relations,  and  being  stripped  of  all 
outward  comforts,  before  his  own  life  should  be  taken  away." 

To  fill  up  the  measure  of  his  misfortunes,  his  own  followers 
began  to  plot  against  his  life,  that  by  sacrificing  him  they  might 
purchase  dislionorable  safety.  Through  treachery,  a  number 
of  his  faitliful  adlierents,  the  subjects  of  Wetamoe,  an  Indian 
princess  of  Poeusset,  a  near  kinswoman  and  confederate  of 
Philip,  were  betrayed  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy.  Wetamoe 
was  among  them  at  the  time,  and  attempted  to  make  her  escape 
by  crossing  a  neighboring  river  :  eitlier  exhaust-ed  by  swimming, 
or  starved  by  cold  and  hunger,  slie  was  f(»und  dead  and  naked 
near  the  water  side.  Bu :  persecution  ceased  not  at  the  grave : 
even  death,  the  refuge  ol  tlie  wretched,  where  the  wicked  com- 
monly cease  from  troubling,  was  \o  protection  to  this  outcast 
feuuile,  whose  great  crime  was  affectionate  fidelity  to  her  kins- 
man and  her  friend.  Her  corpse  was  the  object  of  unmanly 
vuul  dastardly  vengeance  ;  the  head  was  severed  from  the  body 
and  set  upon  a  pole,  and  was  thus  exposed,  at  Taunton,  to  the 
view  of  her  captive  subjects.  They  immediately  recognized 
tlie  features  of  their  unfortunate  queen,  and  were  so  affected  at 
tliis  barbarous  spectacle,  tliat  we  are  told  they  broke  forth  into 
the  "  most  horrid  and  diabolical  lamentations." 

However  Pliilii)  had  borne  up  against  the  complicated  mis- 
eries and  misfortunes  lliat  surrounded  him,  the  treachery  of  hia 
followers  seemed  to  wring  liis  heart  and  reduce  him  to  despond- 
ency. It  is  said  that  ''  lie  never  rejoiced  afterwards,  nor  had 
success  in  any  of  his  designs."  The  spring  of  hope  was  broken 
—  the  ardor  of  enterprise  was  extinguished  :  he  looked  around, 
and  all  was  danger  and  darkness  ;  there  was  no  eye  to  pity,  nor 
any  arm  that  could  bring  deliverance.  With  a  scanty  band  of 
followers,  who  still  remained  true  to  his  desperate  fortunes,  the 
unhappy  Philii)  wandered  back  to  the  vicinity  of  Mount  Hope, 
the  ancient  dwelling  of  his  fathers.  Here  he  lurked  about,  like 
a  spectre,  among  the  scenes  of  former  power  and  prosperity, 
now  bereft  of  home,  of  family,  and  friend.  There  needs  no 
better  picture  of  his  destitute  and  piteous  situation,  than  that 
furnished  by  the  homely  pen  of  the  chronicler,  who  is  unwarily 
eulisting  the  feelings  of  the  reader  in  favor  of  the  hapless  war- 
rior whom  he  reviles.  "  Philip,"  he  says,  "  like  a  savage  wild 
beast,  having  been  hunted  by  the  English  forces  through  the 


^1 


L«*>.*>  vi*--^H 


232 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


wojf's  above  a  hundred  miles  backward  and  forward,  at  last 
was  driven  to  his  own  den  upon  Mount  Hope,  where  he  retired. 
with  a  few  of  his  best  friends,  into  a  swamp,  which  proved  but 
a  prison  to  keep  him  fast  till  the  messengers  of  death  came  by 
divine  permission  to  execute  vengeance  upon  him." 

Even  in  this  last  refuge  of  desperation  and  despair,  a  sullen 
grandeur  gathers  roun(l  his  memory.  Wc  picture  him  to  our- 
selves seated  among  bis  care-worn  followers,  brooding  in  silence 
over  his  blasted  fortunes,  and  acquiring  a  savage  sublimity 
from  the  wilduess  and  di'eariuess  of  his  lurking-place.  De- 
feated, but  not  disma3'ed  —  crushed  to  the  earth,  but  not 
humiliated  —  lie  seemed  to  grow  more  haughty  beneath  disTs- 
ter,  and  to  experience  a  fierce  satisfaction  in  draining  the  last 
dregs  of  bitterness.  Little  minds  are  tamed  and  sulxbied  l)y 
misfortune ;  but  great  minds  rise  above  it.  The  very  idea  of 
submission  awakened  the  fury  of  Philij),  and  he  smote  to  dcatli 
one  of  his  followers,  who  proposed  an  expedient  of  peace.  TIn' 
brother  of  the  victim  made  his  escape,  and  in  revenge  betrayed 
the  retreat  of  his  chieftain.  A  body  of  wliite  men  and  Ii;di:iii» 
were  immediately  despatched  to  the  swamp  where  Philip  l;iy 
crouched,  glaring  with  fury  and  despair.  Before  he  was  awan. 
of  their  approach,  they  had  begun  to  surround  him.  In  a  litUo 
while  he  saw  five  of  his  trustiest  followers  laid  dead  at  his  feet ; 
all  resistance  was  vain  ;  he  rushed  forth  from  his  covert,  and 
made  a  headlong  attempt  at  escape,  but  was  shot  thiougli  tlus 
heart  by  a  renegado  Indian  of  his  own  nation. 

Such  is  the  scanty  story  of  the  brave,  but  unfortunate  King 
Philip ;  persecuted  while  living,  slandered  and  dishonored  wlieu 
dead.  If,  however,  we  consider  even  the  prejudiced  anecdote*) 
furnished  us  by  his  enemies,  we  may  perceive  in  them  traces  of 
amiable  and  lofty  character,  suflicient  to  awaken  sympathy  foi 
his  fate  and  respect  for  his  memory.  We  find,  that  amidst  all 
the  harassing  cares  and  ferocious  passions  of  constant  warfare. 
he  was  alive  to  the  softer  feelings  of  coniujbial  love  and 
paternal  tenderness,  and  to  the  generous  sentiment  of  friend- 
ship.  The  captivity  of  his  "  beloved  wife  and  only  son"  is 
mentioned  with  exultation,  as  causing  him  i)oignant  misery : 
the  death  of  any  near  friend  is  triumphantly  recorded  as  a  new 
blow  on  his  sensibilities;  br'.  the  treachery  and  desertion  of 
many  of  his  followers,  in  v.  nose  affections  he  had  confided,  is 
said  to  have  desolated  his  heart,  and  to  have  bereaved  him  of 
all  further  comfort.  He  was  a  patriot,  attached  to  his  native 
soil  —  a  prince  true  to  his  subjects,  and  indignant  of  their 
wrongs  —  a  soldier,  daring  in  battle,  firm  iu  adversity,  patient 


JOHN  BULL. 


t  last 


ullen 
our-. 
Icucc 
imity 
De- 
iiot 

ast 

a  l.y 

-lea  of 

death 

Tli(. 


of  fatigue,  of  hunger,  of  every  variety  of  bodily  suffering,  ana 
ready  to  perish  in  tLv^  cause  he  had  espoused.  Proud  of  heart, 
and  with  an  untamable  love  of  natural  liberty,  he  preferred  to 
enjoy  it  among  the  beasts  of  tlie  forests,  or  in  the  dismal  and 
famished  recesses  of  swamps  and  morasses,  rather  than  bow 
his  haughty  spirit  to  submission,  and  live  dependent  and  de- 
spised in  the  ease  and  luxury  of  the  settlements.  With  heroic 
qualities  and  bold  achievements  that  would  have  graced  a 
civilized  warrior,  and  have  rendered  him  the  theme  of  tlie  poet 
and  the  historian,  he  lived  a  wanderer  and  a  fugitive  in  his 
native  laud,  and  went  down,  like  a  lonely  bark,  foundering 
amid  darkness  and  tempest  —  without  a  pitying  eye  to  weep  his 
fall,  or  a  friendly  hand  to  record  his  struggle. 


JOHN   BULL. 


An  old  song,  made  hy  an  aged  old  pate, 
Of  ill)  old  worshipful  gentleman  who  had  a  great  estate, 
That  kept  a  brave  old  house  at  a  bountiful  rate, 
And  an  old  porter  to  relievo  the  poor  at  his  gate. 

With  an  old  study  filled  full  of  learned  old  books, 

With  an  old  reverend  chaplain,  you  mi^'..  know  him  by  his  lookM, 

With  an  old  l-uttery-hatch  worn  quite  off  the  books, 

And  an  old  kitchen  that  maintained  half-a-dozen  old  cooks. 

Like  au  old  courtier,  etc.—  Old  Song. 

There  is  no  species  of  humor  in  which  the  English  more 
excel,  than  that  which  consists  in  caricaturing  and  giving 
ludicrous  appellations  or  nicknames.  In  this  way  they  have 
wliimsically  designated,  not  merely  individuals,  but  n.-tions; 
and  in  their  fondness  for  pushing  a  joke,  they  have  not  spared 
even  tliemselves.  One  would  think  that,  in  per.sonifying  itself, 
a  nation  would  be  apt  to  picture  something  grand,  heroic,  and 
imposing  ;  but  it  is  characteristic  of  the  peculiar  humor  of  the 
Kii<>lish,  and  of  their  love  for  what  is  blunt,  comic,  and 
familiar,  that  they  have  embodied  their  national  oddities  in 
the  figure  of  a  sturdy,  corpulent  old  fellow,  with  a  three- 
cornered  hat,  red  waistcoat,  leather  breeclu^s,  and  stout  oaken 
cadgel.  Thus  thoy  have  taken  a  singular  delight  in  exhibiting 
their  most  private  foibles  in  a  laughable  point  of  view ;  and 
have   been   so   successful   in    their  delineations,  that  there  is 


;|I 


«*--<u,„.^-„ 


il 


iM 


ii:!   i' 


4     i 


284 


TFJF  SKETCH-BOOK. 


scarcely  a  being  in  actual  existence  more  absolutely  present 
to  the  public  mind,  than  th.'it  eccentric  persona^^o,  John  Hull. 

Perhaps  the  continual  contemplation  of  the  cliaracter  thus 
drawn  of  them,  has  contributed  to  fix  it  upon  the  nation ;  uud 
thus  to  give  reality  to  what  at  first  may  have  been  painted  in  a 
great  measure  from  the  imagination.  Men  are  apt  to  acquire 
peculiarities  that  are  continually  ascribed  to  them.  The  com- 
mon orders  of  English  seem  wonderfully  captivated  with  the 
bemc  ideal  which  they  have  formed  of  John  Bull,  and  endeavor 
to  act  up  to  the  broad  caricature  that  is  perpetually  before  their 
eyes.  Unluckily,  they  sometimes  nuike  their  boasted  Hull-ism 
an  apology  for  their  prejudice  or  grossness ;  and  this  1  have 
especially  noticed  among  those  truly  homebred  and  genuine 
sons  of  the  soil  who  have  never  migrated  beyond  the  sound  of 
Bow-bells.  If  one  of  these  should  be  a  little  uncouth  in  speech, 
and  apt  to  utter  impertinent  truths,  he  confesses  that  he  is  a 
real  .lohn  Bull,  and  always  speaks  his  mind.  !f  he  now  and 
then  flies  into  an  unreasonal)le  burst  of  passion  about  trilk's, 
he  observes  that  John  Bull  is  a  choleric  old  blade,  but  then  his 
passion  is  over  in  a  moment,  and  he  bears  no  malice.  If  he 
betrays  a  coarseness  of  taste,  and  an  insensibility  to  foreign 
refinements,  he  thanks  Jleaven  for  his  ignorance  —  lie  is  a  plain 
John  Bull,  and  has  no  relish  for  frippery  and  knick-knacks.  His 
very  proneness  to  be  gulled  by  strangers,  and  to  pay  extrava- 
gantly for  absurdities,  is  excused  under  the  plea  of  munificence 
^-  for  John  is  always  more  generous  than  wise. 

Thus,  under  the  name  of  John  Bull,  he  will  contrive  to  argue 
every  fault  into  a  merit,  and  will  frankly  convict  liimself  of 
being  the  honestest  fellow  in  existence. 

However  little,  therefore,  the  character  may  have  suited  in 
the  first  instance,  it  has  gradually  adapted  itself  to  the  nation, 
or  rather  they  have  adapted  themselves  to  each  other ;  and  a 
stranger  who  wishes  to  study  English  peculiarities,  may  gather 
much  valuable  information  from  the  innumerable  portraits  of 
John  Bull,  as  exhibited  in  the  windows  of  the  caricature-shops. 
Still,  however,  he  is  one  of  those  fertile  humorists,  that  are 
continually  throwing  out  new  portraits,  and  presenting  differ- 
ent aspects  from  different  points  of  view  ;  and,  often  as  he  has 
been  described,  I  cannot  resist  the  temi)tation  to  give  a  slight 
sketch  of  him,  such  as  he  has  met  my  eye. 

John  Bull,  to  all  appearance,  is  a  plain  downright  matter-of- 
fact  fellow,  with  much  less  of  poetry  about  him  than  rich  prose. 
There  is  little  of  romance  in  his  nature,  but  a  vast  deal  of 
strong  natural  feeling.     lie  excels  iq  humor  more  than  in  wit ; 


JOHN  BULL. 


236 


IB  Jolly  rather  than  gay ;  melancholy  rather  than  morose ;  can 
easily  be  moved  to  a  sudden  tear,  or  surprisei"  "nto  a  broad 
laugh  ;  but  he  loathes  sentiment,  and  has  no  turn  for  light  pleas- 
antry. He  is  a  boon  companion,  if  you  allow  him  to  have  his 
humor,  and  to  talk  about  himself ;  and  he  will  stand  by  a  friend 
^n  a  quarrel,  with  life  and  purse,  however  soundly  he  may  be 
cudgelled. 

In  this  last  respect,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  has  a  propensity  to 
be  somewhat  too  ready.  He  is  a  busy-minded  personage,  who 
thinks  not  merely  for  himself  and  family,  but  for  all  the  country 
round,  and  is  most  generously  disposed  to  be  everybody's  cham- 
pion. He  is  continually  volunteering  his  services  to  settle  his 
neighbors'  affairs,  and  takes  it  in  great  dudgeon  if  they  engage 
in  any  matter  of  consequence  without  asking  his  advice  ;  though 
he  seldom  engages  in  any  friendly  ofllce  of  the  kind  without  fin- 
ishing by  getting  into  a  squabble  with  all  parties  and  then  railing 
I)itterly  at  their  ingratitude.  He  unluckily  took  lessons  in  his 
youth  in  the  noble  science  of  defence,  and  having  accomplished 
himself  in  the  use  of  his  limbs  and  his  weapons,  and  become  a 
perfect  master  at  boxing  and  cudgel-play,  he  has  had  a  trouble- 
some life  of  it  ever  since.  He  cannot  hear  of  a  quarrel  between 
the  most  distant  of  his  neighbors,  but  he  begins  incontinently  to 
f limbic  with  the  head  of  his  cudgel,  and  consider  whether  his 
interest  or  honor  does  not  require  that  he  should  meddle  in  the 
broil.  Indeed,  he  has  extended  his  relations  of  pride  and  policy 
BO  completel}'  over  the  whole  country,  that  no  event  can  take 
place,  without  infringing  some  of  his  finely-spun  rights  and 
dignities.  Couched  in  his  little  domain,  with  these  filaments 
Btretching  forth  in  every  direction,  he  is  like  some  choleric, 
bottle-bellied  old  spider,  who  has  woven  his  web  over  a  whole 
chamber,  so  that  a  fly  cannot  buzz,  nor  a  breeze  blow,  without 
startling  his  repose,  and  causing  him  to  sally  forth  wrathfuUy 
from  his  den. 

Though  really  a  good-hearted,  good-tempered  old  fellow  at 
bottom,  yet  he  is  singularly  fond  of  being  in  the  midst  of  con- 
tention. It  is  one  of  his  peculiarities,  however,  that  he  onl}' 
relishes  the  beginning  of  an  affray  ;  he  always  goes  into  a  fight 
with  alacrity,  but  comes  out  of  it  grumbling  even  when  victo- 
rious ;  and  though  no  one  fights  with  more  obstinacy  to  carry 
a  contested  point,  yet,  when  the  battle  is  over,  and  he  comes 
to  the  reconciliation,  he  is  so  much  taken  up  with  the  mere 
shaking  of  hands,  that  he  is  apt  to  let  his  antagonist  pocket 
all  that  they  have  been  quarrelling  about.  It  is  not,  therefore, 
fighting  that  he  ought  so  much  to  be  on  his  guard  against,  as 


J 


236 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


\U 


/", 


making  friends.  It  is  difllciilt  to  cudgel  him  out  of  a  f.irthing , 
but  put  him  in  a  good  iuiinor,  and  you  may  haifjain  him  out 
of  all  the  money  in  liis  pocket.  He  is  like  a  stout  shi|),  whieii 
will  weather  the  rougliest  storm  uninjured,  hut  roll  its  niasta 
overboard  in  the  succeeding  calm. 

He  is  a  little  fond  of  playing  the  magnifico  abroad  ;  of  pulling 
out  a  long  purse ;  Hinging  his  money  brav»'ly  altoiit  jit  boxing- 
matches,  horse-races,  coek-tighls,  and  carrying  a  high  head 
among  "  gentlemen  of  tlie  fancy;"  but  immediately  after  one 
of  these  fits  of  extravagance,  he  will  be  taken  with  violent 
qualms  of  economy  ;  stop  short  at  the  most  trivial  expenditure  ; 

Ik  desperately  of  being  ruined  and  brought  upon  the  parisii ; 
and  in  such  moods  will  not  pay  the  smallest  tr.idesmau's  bill 
without  violent  altercation.  lie  is,  in  fact,  the  most  punctual 
and  discontented  paymaster  in  the  world  ;  drawing  his  coin  out 
of  his  breeches  pocket  with  infinite  reluctance  ;  paying  to  the 
uttermost  farthing,  but  accompanying  every  guinea  with  a 
growl. 

With  all  his  talk  of  economy,  however,  he  is  a  bountiful 
provider,  and  a  hospitable  housekeeper.  His  economy  is  o."  a 
whimsical  kind,  its  chief  oltject  being  to  devise  how  he  may 
afford  to  be  extravagant;  for  he  will  i)egrudge  himself  a  lieef- 
steak  and  pint  of  port  one  day,  that  he  may  roast  an  ox  wliolo, 
broach  a  hogshead  of  ale,  and  treat  all  his  neighbors  on  the 
next 

His  domestic  establishment  is  enormously  expensive  :  not  so 
much  from  any  great  outward  |)aradc,  as  from  the  grciit  con- 
sumption of  solid  beef  and  pudding ;  the  vast  numl)er  of  fol- 
lowers he  feeds  and  clothes  ;  and  his  singular  disposition  to  pay 
hugely  for  small  services.  He  is  a  most  kind  and  indulgent 
master,  and,  provided  his  servants  humor  his  peculiarities,  llat- 
ter  his  vanity  a  little  now  and  then,  and  do  not  peculate  grossly 
on  him  before  his  face,  they  may  manage  him  to  perfection. 
Every** thing  that  lives  on  him  seems  to  thrive  and  grow  fat. 
His  house  servants  are  well  paid,  and  pampered,  and  have  little 
to  do.  His  horses  are  sleek  and  lazy,  and  prance  slowly  licforc 
his  state  carriage  ;  and  his  house-dogs  sleep  quietly  aiiouL  the 
door,  and  will  hardly  bark  at  a  housebreaker. 

His  family  mansion  is  an  old  castellated  manor-house,  gray 
with  age,  and  of  a  most  venerable,  though  weather-beaten,  ap- 
pearance. It  has  been  built  upon  no  regular  plan,  but  is  a  vast 
accumulation  of  parts,  erected  in  various  tastes  and  ages.  Tlie 
centre  bears  evident  traces  of  Saxon  architecture,  and  is  as 
solid  as  ponderous  stone  and  old  English  oak   can   make   it. 


I 


JOHN    BULL. 


237 


illing 
xiiig- 
K'ud 
r  one 
ok'iit 
tiire; 
irisli ; 
hill 
ictual 
n  oul 
to  Ihc 
vith   a 


Like  all  the  relics  of  that  style,  it  is  full  of  obscure  passaj^eH, 
intricate  mazes,  and  dusicy  chambers;  and  though  these  have 
been  partially  lighted  up  in  modern  days,  yet  there  arc  many 
places  where  you  must  still  grope  in  the  dark.  Additions  have 
been  made  to  the  original  edifice  from  time  to  time,  and  great 
alterations  have  taken  place ;  towers  and  battlements  have 
been  erected  during  wars  and  tumults ;  wings  built  in  time  of 
peace  ;  and  out-houses,  lodges,  and  offices,  run  up  according  to 
the  whim  or  convenience  of  different  generations,  until  it  has 
become  one  of  the  most  spacious,  rambling  tenemeuts  imagi- 
nable. An  entire  wing  is  taken  up  with  the  family  chapel ;  a 
reverend  pile,  that  must  have  been  exceedingly  sumptuous, 
and,  indeed,  in  spite  of  having  been  altered  and  simplified 
at  various  periods,  has  still  a  look  of  solemn  religious  pomp. 
Its  walls  within  are  storied  with  the  monuments  of  John's 
ancestors ;  and  it  is  snugly  fitted  up  with  soft  cushions  and 
well-lined  chairs,  where  such  of  his  family  as  are  inclined  to 
chu^'ch  services,  may  doze  comfortably  in  the  discharge  of  their 
di^viCS. 

To  keep  up  this  chapel,  has  cost  John  much  money ;  but  he 
is  staunch  in  his  religion,  and  piqued  in  his  zeal,  from  the  cir- 
cumstance that  many  dissenting  chapels  have  been  erected  in 
bis  vicinity,  and  several  of  his  neighbors,  with  whom  he  has 
bad  quarrels,  are  strong  Papists. 

To  do  the  duties  of  the  chapel,  he  maintains,  at  a  large 
expense,  a  pious  and  portly  family  chaplain.  lie  is  a  most 
learned  and  decorous  personage,  and  a  truly  well-bred  Christian, 
who  always  backs  the  old  gentleman  in  his  opinions,  winks 
discreetly  at  his  little  peccadilloes,  rebukes  the  children  when 
refractory,  and  is  of  great  use  in  exhorting  the  tenants  to  read 
their  Bibles,  say  their  prayers,  and,  above  all,  to  pay  their  rents 
punctually,  and  without  grumbling. 

The  family  apartments  are  in  a  vcy  antiquated  taste,  some- 
what heavy,  and  often  inconvenient,  but  full  of  the  solemn 
magnificence  of  former  times ;  fitted  up  with  rich,  though  faded 
tapestry,  unwieldy  furniture,  and  loads  of  massy,  gorgeous  old 
plate.  The  vast  fireplaces,  ample  kitchens,  extensive  cellars, 
and  sumptuous  banqueting  halls,  —  all  speak  of  the  roaring  hos- 
pitality of  days  of  yore,  of  which  the  modern  festivity  at  the 
manor-house  is  but  a  shadow.  There  are,  however,  complete 
suites  of  rooms  apparently  deserted  and  time-worn ;  and  towers 
and  turrets  that  are  tottering  to  decay ;  so  that  in  high  winds 
there  is  danger  or  their  tumbling  about  the  ears  of  the  house- 
hold. 


II 


':. 


238 


THE  SKETCH-nOOK. 


? 


■ii  'r 


m 


;l 


;.  m 


■I     I 


John  has  frequently  been  advised  to  have  the  old  edifice 
thoroughly  overhauled,  and  to  have  some  of  tlie  useless  pnrts 
pulled  down,  and  the  others  strengthened  with  their  materials; 
but  the  old  gentleman  always  grows  testy  on  this  subject.  He 
swears  the  house  is  an  excellent  house  —  ihat  it  is  tight  and 
weather-proof,  and  not  to  be  shalven  I)}-  tempests  —  that  it  has 
stood  for  several  hundred  years,  and  therefore,  is  not  likely  to 
tumble  down  now  —  that  as  to  its  being  inconvenient,  his  family 
is  accustomed  to  tlie  inconveniences,  and  would  not  be  comfort- 
able without  them —  that  as  to  its  unwieldy  size  and  irregular 
construction,  these  result  from  its  being  tlie  growtli  of  centuries, 
and  being  improved  by  the  wisdom  of  every  generation  —  that 
an  Old  family,  like  his,  requires  a  large  house  to  dwell  in  ;  new, 
upstart  families  may  live  in  modern  cottages  and  snug  boxes, 
but  an  old  English  family  should  inhal)it  an  old  Knglisli  manor- 
house.  If  you  point  out  any  part  of  the  building  as  superlluous, 
he  insists  that  it  is  material  to  the  strength  or  decoration  of  the 
rest,  and  the  harmony  of  the  whole ;  and  swears  that  the  parts 
are  so  built  into  each  other ;  that,  if  you  pull  down  one  you  run 
the  risk  of  having  the  whole  about  your  ears. 

The  secret  of  the  matter  is,  that  John  has  a  great  disposition 
to  protect  and  patronize.  He  thinks  it  indif^pensable  to  the 
dignity  of  an  ancient  and  honorable  family,  to  be  bounteous  in 
its  appointments,  and  to  l)e  eaten  i;p  by  dependants  ;  and  so, 
partly  from  pride,  and  partly  from  kind-heartedness,  he  makes 
it  a  rule  always  to  give  shelter  and  maintenance  to  his  sui)er- 
annuated  servants. 

The  consequence  is,  that,  like  many  other  venerable  family 
establishments,  his  manor  is  encumbered  by  old  retainers  wlioni 
he  cannot  turn  off,  and  an  old  style  whieli  lie  cannot  lay  down. 
His  mansion  is  like  a  great  hospital  of  invalids,  and,  wilii  all  its 
magnitude,  is  not  a  whit  too  large  for  its  inhabitants.  Not  a 
nook  or  corner  but  is  of  use  in  houshig  some  useless  personage. 
Groups  of  veteran  beef-eaters,  gouty  pensioners,  and  retired 
heroes  of  the  buttery  and  the  larder,  are  seen  lolling  about  its 
walls,  crawling  over  its  lawns,  dozing  under  its  trees,  or  sunning 
themselves  upon  the  benches  at  its  doors.  Every  oflice  and 
out-house  is  garrisoned  by  these  supernumeraries  and  their 
families;  for  they  are  amazingly  prolific,  and  when  they  die  off, 
are  sure  to  leave  John  a  legacy  of  hungry  mouths  to  be  provided 
for.  A  mattock  cannot  be  struck  against  the  most  mouldering 
tumble-down  tower,  but  out  pops,  from  some  cranny,  or  loop- 
hole, the  gray  pate  of  some  superannuated  hanger-on,  who  has 
lived  at  John's  expense  all  his  Ufe,  and  makes  the  most  gricvouy 


JOHN  BULL. 


239 


outcry,  at  their  pulling  down  the  roof  from  over  the  head  of  a 
worn-out  servant  of  the  family.  This  is  an  appeal  that  John's 
honest  heart  never  can  withstand  ;  so  that  a  man  who  has  faith- 
fully eaten  his  beef  and  pudding  all  his  life,  is  sure  to  be 
rewarded  with  a  pipe  and  tankard  in  his  old  days. 

A  great  part  of  his  park,  also,  is  turned  into  paddocks,  where 
his  broken-down  chargers  are  turned  loose  to  graze  undisturbed 
for  the  remainder  of  their  existence  —  a  worthy  example  of 
grateful  recollection,  which  if  some  of  his  neighbors  were  to 
imitate,  would  not  be  to  their  discredit.  Indeed,  it  is  one  of  his 
great  pleasures  to  point  out  these  old  steeds  to  his  visitors,  to 
dwell  on  their  good  qualities,  extol  their  past  services,  and 
boast,  with  some  little  vainglory,  of  the  perilous  adventures 
and  hardy  exploits  through  which  they  have  carried  him. 

He  is  given,  however,  to  indulge  his  veneration  for  family 
usages,  and  family  encumbrances,  to  a  whimsical  extent.  His 
manor  is  infested  by  gangs  of  gypsies ;  yet  he  will  not  suffer 
ihem  to  be  driven  off,  because  they  have  infested  the  place  time 
out  of  mind,  and  been  regular  poachers  upon  ever}'  generation 
of  the  family.  He  will  scarcely  permit  a  dry  branch  to  be 
loppecT  from  the  great  trees  that  surround  the  house,  lest  it 
should  molest  the  rooks,  that  have  bred  there  for  centuries. 
Owls  have  taken  possession  of  the  dove-cote,  but  they  are  hered- 
itary owls,  and  must  not  be  disturbed.  Swallows  have  nearly 
choked  up  every  chimney  with  their  nests  ;  martins  build  in 
every  frieze  and  cornice ;  crows  flutter  about  the  towers,  and 
perch  on  every  weathercock  ;  and  old  gray-headed  rats  may  be 
seen  in  every  quarter  of  the  house,  running  in  and  out  of  their 
holes  undauntedly  in  broad  daylight.  In  short,  John  has  such 
a  revereuce  for  every  thing  that  has  been  long  in  the  family, 
that  he  will  not  hear  oven  of  abuses  being  reformed,  because 
they  are  good  old  family  abuses. 

All  these  whims  and  habits  have  concurred  wofuUy  to  drain 
the  old  gentleman's  purse  ;  and  as  he  prides  himself  on  punctu- 
ality in  money  matters,  and  wisbes  to  maintain  his  credit  in 
the  neighborhood,  they  have  caused  him  great  perplexity  in 
meeting  his  engagements.  This,  too,  has  been  increased  by 
the  altercations  and  heartburnings  which  are  continually  taking 
place  in  his  family.  His  children  have  been  brought  up  to  dif- 
ferent callings,  and  are  of  different  ways  of  thinking ;  and  as 
they  have  always  been  allowed  to  speak  their  minds  freely,  they 
do  not  fail  to  exercise  the  privilege  most  clamorously  in  the 
present  posture  of  his  affairs.  Some  stand  up  for  the  honor 
of  the  race,  and  are  clear  that  the  old  establishment  should  be 


ufL 


:ii 


|i 


tti 


240 


THE    SKETCH-BOOK. 


P! 


kept  up  in  all  its  state,  whatever  may  be  the  cost ;  others,  who 
are  more  prudent  and  considerate,  entreat  the  old  gentleman 
to  retrench  his  expenses,  and  to  put  his  whole  system  of  house- 
keeping on  a  more  moderate  footing.  He  has,  indeed,  at  times, 
seemed  inclined  to  listen  to  their  opinions,  but  their  wholesome 
advice  has  b?en  completely  defeated  by  the  obstreperous  c(m- 
duct  of  one  tf  liis  sons.  This  is  a  noisy  rattle-pated  fellow, 
of  rather  low  habits,  who  neglects  his  business  to  frequent  ale- 
houses—  is  the  orator  of  village  clubs,  and  a  complete  oracle 
among  the  poorest  of  his  father's  tenants.  No  sooner  does  he 
hear  any  of  his  brothers  mention  reform  or  retrenchment,  tluin 
up  he  jumps,  takes  the  words  out  of  their  mouths,  and  roars 
out  for  an  overturn.  When  his  tongue  is  once  going,  nothing 
can  stop  it.  He  rants  about  the  room ;  hectors  the  old  man 
about  his  spendthrift  practices ;  ridicules  his  tastes  and  pnr- 
suits ;  insists  that  he  shall  turn  the  old  servants  out  of  doors ; 
give  the  broken-down  horses  to  i^"-  hounds  ;  send  the  fat  chap- 
lain packing  and  take  a  field-preachei  in  his  place  —  nay,  that 
the  whole  family  mansion  shall  be  levelled  with  the  ground, 
and  a  plain  one  of  brick  and  mortar  built  in  its  place.  He  rails 
at  every  social  entertainment  and  family  festivity,  rnd  skulks 
away  growling  to  the  ale-house  whenever  an  equipages  drives  up 
to  the  door.  Though  constantly  complaining  of  the  emptiness 
of  his  purse,  yet  he  scruples  not  to  spend  all  his  pocket-money 
in  these  tavern  convocations,  and  even  runs  up  scores  for  the 
liquor  over  which  he  preaches  about  his  father's  extravagance. 

It  may  readily  be  imagined  how  little  such  thwarting  agrees 
with  the  old  cavalier's  fiery  temperament.  He  has  become  so 
irritable,  from  repeated  crossings,  that  the  mere  mention  of 
retrenchment  or  reform  is  a  signal  for  a  brawl  between  him  and 
the  tavern  oracle.  As  the  latter  is  too  sturdy  and  refractory 
for  paternal  discipline,  having  .grown  out  of  all  fear  of  the 
cudgel,  they  have  frequent  scenes  of  wordy  warfare,  which  at 
times  run  so  high,  that  John  is  fain  to  <;all  in  the  aid  of  his  son 
Tom,  an  oflScerwhohas  served  abroad,  but  is  at  present  living 
at  home,  on  half-pay.  This  last  is  sure  to  stand  by  the  old 
gentleman,  right  or  wrong;  likes  nothing  so  much  as  a  racket- 
ing roystering  life  ;  and  is  ready,  at  a  wink  or  nod,  to  out  sabre, 
and  flourish  it  over  the  orator's  head,  if  he  dares  to  array  him- 
self against  paternal  authority. 

These  family  dissensions,  as  usual,  have  got  abroad,  and  are 
rare  food  for  scandal  in  .John's  neighborhood,  People  begi" 
to  look  wise,  and  shake  their  heads,  whenever  his  affairs  arc 
mentioned.    They  all  "  hope  that  matters  are  not  so  bad  with 


JOHN  BULL. 


241 


bim  as  represented ;  but  when  a  man's  own  children  begin  to 
rail  at  his  extravagance,  things  must  be  badly  managed.  They 
understand  he  is  mortgaged  over  bead  and  ear«,  and  is  contin- 
ually dabbling  with  money-lenders.  He  is  certainly  an  open- 
handed  old  gentleman,  but  they  fear  he  has  lived  too  fast; 
indeed,  they  never  knew  any  good  oome  of  this  fondness  for 
liunting,  racing,  revelling,  and  prize-fighting.  In  short,  Mr. 
Hull's  estate  is  a  very  fine  one,  and  has  beeu  in  the  family  a 
long  while ;  but  for  all  that,  they  have  known  many  finer  es- 
tates come  to  the  hammer." 

What  is  worst  of  all,  is  the  effect  which  these  pecuniary  em- 
barrassments and  domestic  feuds  have  had  on  the  poor  man 
himself.  Instead  of  that  jolly  round  corporation,  and  smug 
rosy  face,  which  he  used  to  present,  he  has  of  late  become  as 
shrivelled  and  shrunk  as  a  frostbitten  apple.  His  scarlet  gold- 
laced  waistcoat,  which  bellied  out  so  bravely  in  those  prosper- 
ous days  when  he  sailed  before  the  wind,  now  hangs  loosely 
about  him  like  a  mainsail  in  a  calm.  His  leather  breeches  are 
all  in  folds  and  wrinkles ;  and  apparently  have  much  ado  i^ 
hold  up  the  'iOo!i  that  yawn  on  both  sides  of  his  once  sturdy 
legs. 

Instead  of  strutting  about,  as  formerly,  with  his  three-cor- 
nered hat  on  one  side ;  flourishing  his  cudgel,  and  bringing  it 
down  every  moment  with  a  hearty  thump  upon  the  ground ; 
looking  every  one  sturdily  in  the  face,  and  trolling  out  a  stave 
of  a  catch  or  a  drinking  song;  he  now  goes  about  whistling 
thoughtfully  to  himself,  with  his  head  drooping  down,  his  cud- 
gel tucked  under  his  arm,  and  his  hands  thrust  to  the  bottom 
of  Ills  breeches  pockets,  which  are  evidently  empty. 

Such  is  the  plight  of  honest  John  Bull  at  present ;  yet  for  all 
this,  the  old  fellow's  spirit  is  as  tall  and  as  gallant  as  ever.  If 
you  drop  the  least  expression  of  sympathy  or  concern,  he  takes 
fire  in  an  instant;  swears  that  he  is  the  richest  and  stoutest 
fellow  in  the  country ;  talks  of  laying  out  large  sums  to  adorn 
his  house  or  buy  another  estate ;  and,  with  a  valiant  swagger 
and  grasping  of  his  cudgel,  longs  exceedingly  to  have  another 
bout  at  quarterstaflf. 

Though  there  may  be  something  rather  whimsical  in  all  this, 
yet  I  confess  I  cannot  look  upon  John's  situation  without  strong 
feelings  of  interest.  With  all  his  odd  humors  and  obstinate 
prejudices  he  is  a  sterling-hearted  old  blade.  He  may  not  be 
so  wonderfully  fine  a  fellow  as  he  thinks  himself,  but  he  is  at 
least  twice  as  good  as  his  neighbors  represent  him.  His  virtues 
are  all  his  own ;  all  plain,  homebred,  and  unaffected.     His  very 


!     '» 


242 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


faults  smack  of  the  raciness  of  his  good  qualities.  His  extrava< 
gance  savors  of  his  generosity ;  his  quarrelsomeness,  of  hia 
courage ;  his  creduhty,  of  liis  open  faith ;  his  vanity,  of  his 
pride  ;  and  his  bluntness,  of  his  sincerity.  They  are  all  the 
redundancies  of  a  rich  and  liberal  cliaraeter.  He  is  lii<e  his  own 
oak ;  rough  without,  but  sound  and  solid  within  ;  whose  bark 
abounds  witli  excrescences  in  proportion  to  the  growth  and 
grandeur  of  tlie  timber ;  and  wliose  branches  make  a  fearful 
groaning  and  murnuiring  in  the  least  storm,  from  their  very 
magnitude  and  luxuriance.  Tliere  is  soniething,  too,  in  the  ap 
pearaiicc  of  iiis  old  fauiily  mansion,  that  is  extremel}'  poetican 
and  i)icturesque ;  and,  as  long  as  it  can  be  rendered  comforta- 
bly habitable,  I  should  almost  tremble  to  see  it  meddled  with 
during  the  present  conliict  of  tastes  and  opinions.  Some  of 
his  advisers  are  no  doubt  gooil  arciiitec-ts,  that  might  l)e  of 
service;  l)ut  m;iny,  I  fear,  are  mere  levellers,  who,  when  they 
had  once  got  to  work  with  their  mattocks  ou  this  venerable 
edifice,  would  never  stop  until  they  had  brought  it  to  the  ground, 
and  perhaps  buried  themselves  among  the  ruins.  All  that  I 
wish,  is,  that  John's  present  troubles  may  teach  him  more  pru- 
dence in  future  ;  that  he  may  cease  to  distress  his  mind  about 
other  people's  affairs  ;  that  he  may  give  up  the  fruitless  attempt 
to  promote  the  good  of  his  neighbors,  and  the  peace  and  happi- 
ness of  the  world,  by  dint  of  the  cudgel ;  thji<  he  may  remain 
quietly  :it  lionic  ;  gradually  get  his  house  into  repair;  cultivate 
his  rich  estate  according  to  his  fanc}  ;  husband  his  income  —  if 
he  thinks  proper;  bring  his  unruly  children  into  order — if  he 
can  ;  renew  tiie  jovial  scenes  of  ancient  prosperity  ;  and  long 
enjoy,  on  his  paternal  lands,  a  green,  an  honorable,  and  a  merry 
old  age. 


THE  riUDE  OF  TIIE  VILLAGE. 

M.iy  no  wolt'o  howle :  no  Bcreech-owie  Btlr 

A  wiiiij  ubout  thy  Mcpulchre! 

No  boydlerous  winds  or  HtormeB  come  hither, 

To  ntarve  or  wither 
Thy  soft  Bwcet  eartli!  Inii,  lllic  a  tmring, 
Love  iieep  it  ever  (lourinhiiig.  —  IIkkkick. 

Tn  the  course  of  an  excursion  tlirough  one  of  the  remote 
counties  of  Englaud,  I  had  struck  into  one  of  those  cross-roads 
that  lead  thiough  the  more  secluded  parts  of  the  country,  and 


TUHJ  PRIDE  OF  THE   VILLAGE. 


243 


Jva* 

bia 

his 

I  the 

)wn 

fark 
land 
Irfui 


Btopped  one  afternoon  at  a  village,  the  situation  of  which  waa 
heautifully  rural  and  retired.  There  was  an  air  of  primitive 
einiplicity  about  its  inhabitants,  not  to  be  found  in  the  villages 
wliich  lie  on  the  great  coaeh-:oads.  I  determined  to  pass  the 
night  there,  and  having  taken  an  early  dinner,  strolled  out  to 
enjoy  the  neighboring  scenery. 

My  ramble,  as  is  usually  the  case  with  travellers,  soon  led 
me  to  the  church,  which  stood  at  a  little  distance  from  the  vil- 
lage. Indeed,  it  was  an  cbject  of  some  curiosity,  its  old  tower 
being  completely  overrun  with  ivy,  so  that  only  here  and  there 
a  jutting  buttress,  an  angle  of  gray  wall,  or  a  fantastically 
carved  oitiament,  peered  tlu'ough  tiie  verdant  covering.  It  was 
a  lovely  evening.  Tlie  early  part  of  the  day  had  been  dark  and 
but  in  the  afternoon  it  had  cleared  up  :  and  though 


sliowery, 


sullen  clouds  still  hung  overhead,  yet  there  was  a  broad  tract  of 
golden  sky  in  the  west,  from  which  the  setting  sun  gleamed 
through  the  dripping  leaves,  and  lit  up  all  naturt  with  a  melan- 
choly smile.  It  seemed  like  tlie  parting  hour  of  a  good  Chris- 
tian, smiling  on  the  sins  and  sorrows  of  the  world,  and  giving, 
in  the  serenity  of  his  decline,  an  assurance  that  he  will  rise 
again  in  glory. 

I  had  seated  myself  on  a  half-sunken  tombstone,  and  was 
musing,  as  one  is  apt  to  do  at  tliis  sober-thoughted  hour,  on 
past  scenes,  and  early  friends — on  those  who  were  distant,  and 
those  who  were  dead — and  indulgino;  in  that  kind  of  melan- 
choly  fancying,  whicli  has  in  it  sometliing  sweeter  even  than 
pleasure.  Every  now  and  then,  the  stroke  of  a  bell  from  the 
neighboring  tower  fell  on  my  ear ;  its  tones  were  in  unison 
witli  the  scene,  and  instead  of  jarring,  chimed  in  with  my  feel- 
ings ;  and  it  was  some  time  before  I  recollected,  that  it  must  be 
tolling  the  knell  of  some  new  tenant  of  the  tomb. 

Presently'  I  saw  a  funeral  train  moving  across  the  village 
>,Tcen  ;  it  wound  slowly  along  a  lane  ;  was  lost,  and  reappeared 
ihrough  the  breaks  of  the  hedges,  until  it  passed  the  place 
where  1  was  sitting.  The  pall  was  supported  by  young  girls, 
dressed  in  white ;  and  another,  about  the  age  of  seventeen, 
walked  before,  bearing  a  chaplet  of  white  flowers  :  a  token  that 
tlie  deceased  was  a  young  and  unmarried  female.  The  corpse 
was  followed  by  the  parents.  They  were  a  venerable  couple,  of 
the  better  order  of  peasantry.  The  father  seemed  to  repress 
his  feelings  ;  but  his  fixed  eye,  contracted  brow,  and  deeply- 
TuiTowed  face,  showed  the  struggle  that  was  passing  witliin. 
Ills  wile  hung  on  his  arm,  and  wept  aloud  with  the  convulsivQ 
bursts  of  a  mother's  sorrow. 


I'i 


Ji' 


244 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


M   ': 


I  followed  the  funeral  into  the  church.  The  bier  was  placed 
in  the  centre  aisle,  and  the  chaplet  of  white  flowers,  with  a  pair 
of  white  gloves,  were  hung  over  the  seat  which  the  deceased 
had  occupied. 

Every  one  knows  the  soul-subduing  pathos  of  the  funeral 
service  ;  for  who  is  so  fortunate  as  never  to  have  followed  some 
one  he  has  loved  to  the  tomb?  but  when  performed  over  the 
remains  of  innocence  and  beauty,  thus  laid  low  in  the  bloom  of 
existence  —  what  can  be  more  affecting?  At  that  simple,  but 
Liost  solemn  consignment  of  the  body  to  the  grave  —  "  Earth  to 
earth  —  ashes  to  ashes — dust  to  dust !  "  the  tears  of  the  youth- 
ful companions  of  the  deceased  flowed  unrestrained.  The 
father  still  seemed  to  struggle  with  his  feelings,  and  to  comfort 
himself  with  the  assurance,  that  the  dead  are  blessed  which  die 
in  the  Lord :  but  the  mother  only  thought  of  her  child  as  a 
flower  of  the  field,  cut  down  and  withered  in  the  midst  of  its 
sweetness:  she  was  like  Rachel,  'mourning  over  her  children, 
and  would  not  be  comforted." 

On  returning  to  the  inn,  I  learnt  the  whole  story  of  the 
deceased.  It  was  a  simple  one,  and  such  as  has  often  been 
told.  She  had  been  the  beauty  and  pride  of  the  village.  Her 
father  had  once  been  an  opulent  farmer,  but  was  reduced  in 
circumstances.  This  was  an  only  child,  and  brought  up  en- 
tirely at  home,  in  the  simplicity  of  rural  life.  She  had  been 
the  pupil  of  the  village  pastor,  the  favorite  lamb  of  his  little 
flock.  The  good  man  watched  over  her  education  with  pater- 
nal care ;  it  was  limited,  and  suitable  to  the  sphere  in  wliich 
she  was  to  move  ;  for  he  only  sought  to  make  her  an  ornament 
to  her  station  in  life,  not  to  raise  her  above  it.  The  tender- 
ness and  indulgence  of  her  parents,  and  the  exemption  from 
all  ordinary  occupations,  had  fostered  a  natural  grace  and  deli- 
cacy of  character  tliat  accorded  with  the  fragile  loveliness  of 
her  form.  She  appeared  like  some  tender  plant  of  the  gar- 
den, blooming  accidentally  amid  the  hardier  natives  of  the 
liekls. 

The  superiority  of  her  charms  was  felt  and  acknowledged  by 
her  companions,  but  without  envy  ;  for  it  was  surpassed  by  the 
unassuming  gentleness  and  winning  kindness  of  her  manners. 
It  might  be  truly  said  of  her,  — 


'  This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass,  that  ever 
Ran  on  the  greeiiBwurd  :  nothini»  Hhe  doei  or  Beemii, 
But  emacki  ot  Hoiuulhiufr  greater  than  herself; 
Too  noble  for  Uiu  place." 


THE  PRIDE  OF   TUE    VILLAGE. 


245 


The  village  was  one  of  those  sequestered  spots,  which  still 
retain  some  vestiges  of  old  English  customs.  It  had  its  rural 
festivals  and  holyday  pastimes,  and  still  kept  up  some  faint 
observance  of  the  once  popular  rites  of  May.  These,  indeed, 
had  been  promoted  by  its  present  pastor ;  who  was  a  lover  of 
old  customs,  and  one  of  thosf  simple  Christians  that  think  their 
mission  fulfilled  by  promoting  joy  on  earth  and  good-will  among 
mankind.  Under  his  auspices  the  May-pole  stood  from  year 
to  year  in  the  centre  of  the  village  green ;  on  May-day  it  was 
de  crated  with  garlands  and  streamers ;  and  a  queen  or  lady  of 
th .  May  was  appointed,  as  in  former  times,  to  preside  at  the 
sports,  and  distribute  the  prizes  and  rewards.  The  picturesque 
situation  of  the  village,  and  the  fancifulness  of  its  rustic  fetes, 
would  often  attract  the  notice  of  casual  visitors.  Among  tliese, 
on  one  May-day,  was  a  young  officer,  whose  regiment  had  been 
recently  quartered  in  the  neighborhood.  He  was  charmed  with 
the  native  taste  that  pervaded  this  village  pageant ;  but,  above 
all,  with  the  dawning  loveliness  of  the  queen  of  May.  It  was 
the  village  favorite,  who  was  crowned  with  flowers,  and  blush- 
ing and  smiling  in  all  the  beautiful  confusion  of  girlish  diffi- 
dence and  delight.  The  artlessness  of  rural  habits  enabled 
him  readily  to  make  her  acquaintance ;  he  gradually  won  his 
way  into  her  intimacy ;  and  paid  his  court  to  her  in  that  unthink- 
ing way  in  which  young  officers  are  too  apt  to  trifle  with  rustic 
simplicity. 

There  was  nothing  in  his  advances  to  startle  or  alarm.  He 
never  even  talked  of  love ;  but  there  are  modes  of  making  it, 
more  eloquent  than  language,  and  which  convey  it  subtilely  and 
irresistibly  to  the  heart.  The  beam  of  the  eye,  the  tone  of 
voice,  the  thousand  tendernesses  which  emanate  from  every 
word,  and  look,  and  action  —  these  form  the  true  eloquence  of 
love,  and  can  always  be  felt  and  understood,  but  never  de- 
scribed. Can  we  wonder  that  they  should  readily  win  a  heart, 
young,  guileless,  and  susceptible  ?  As  to  her,  she  loved  almost 
unconsciously ;  she  scarcely  inquired  what  was  the  growing  pas- 
sion that  was  absorbing  every  thought  and  feeling,  or  what  were 
to  be  its  consequences.  She,  indeed,  looked  not  to  the  future. 
When  present,  his  looks  and  words  occupied  her  whole  atten- 
tion ;  when  absent,  she  thought  but  of  what  had  passed  at  their 
recent  interview.  She  would  wander  with  him  through  the 
green  lanes  and  rural  scenes  of  the  vicinity.  He  taught  her 
to  see  new  beauties  in  nature ;  he  talked  in  the  language  of 
polite  and  cultivated  life,  and  breathed  into  her  ear  the  witch- 
eries of  romance  and  poetrr. 


246 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK^ 


Perhaps  there  could  not  have  been  a  passion,  between  the 
sexes,  more  pure  than  this  innocent  girl's.  The  gallant  figure 
of  her  youthful  admirer,  and  the  splendor  of  his  military  attue, 
might  at  first  have  charmed  her  eye  ;  but  it  was  not  these  that 
had  captivated  her  heart.  Her  attachment  liad  something  in  it 
of  idolatry ;  she  looked  up  to  him  as  to  a  being  of  a  superior 
order.  She  felt  in  his  society  the  enthusiasm  of  a  mind  natu- 
rally delicate  and  poetical,  and  now  first  awakened  to  a  keen 
perception  of  the  beautiful  and  grand.  Of  the  sordid  distinc- 
tions of  rank  and  fortune,  she  thought  nothing ;  it  was  the 
difference  of  intellect,  of  demeanor,  of  manners,  from  those 
of  the  rustic  society  to  which  she  had  been  accustomed,  tliat 
elevated  hira  in  her  opinion.  She  would  listen  to  him  with 
charmed  ear  and  downcast  look  of  mute  delight,  and  her  check 
would  mantle  with  enthusiasm :  or  if  ever  she  ventured  a  shy 
glance  of  timid  admiration,  it  was  as  quickly  withdrawn,  anti 
she  would  sigh  and  blush  at  the  idea  of  her  comparative  un- 
worthiness. 

Her  lover  was  equally  impassioned ;  but  his  passion  was 
mingled  with  feelings  of  a  coarser  nature.  He  had  begun  the 
connection  in  levity ;  for  he  had  often  heard  his  brother  ofti  :;ers 
boast  of  their  village  conquests,  and  thought  some  triunpl  of 
the  kind  necessary  to  his  reputation  a.-i  a  man  of  spirit,  iiut 
he  was  too  full  of  youthful  fervor.  His  iicart  had  not  yet  been 
rendered  sufficiently  cold  and  selfisli  by  a  wandering  and  a  dis- 
sipated life :  it  caught  fire  from  the  very  flame  it  souglit  to 
kindle  ;  and  before  he  was  aware  of  the  nature  of  his  situation, 
he  became  really  in  love. 

What  was  he  to  do?  Tiiere  were  the  old  obstacles  which  so 
incessantly  occur  in  these  heedlrss  attachments.  His  rank  in 
life  —  the  prejudices  of  tilled  connections — his  (Impendence 
upon  a  proud  and  unyielding  father — all  forbade  him  to  think 
of  matrimony:  —  but  when  he  looked  down  upon  this  innocent 
being,  so  tender  and  confiding,  there  was  a  purity  in  her  man- 
ners, a  blamelessness  in  her  life,  ancl  a  beseeching  modesty  in 
her  looks,  that  awed  down  every  licentious  feeling.  In  vain 
did  he  try  to  fortify  liimself,  by  a  thousand  heartless  examples 
of  men  of  fashion,  and  to  chill  the  glow  of  generous  sentiment, 
with  that  cold  derisive  levity  with  which  he  iiad  heard  them  talk 
of  female  virtue ;  whenever  he  came  into  her  presence,  she  was 
still  surrounded  by  that  mysterious,  but  impassive  charm  of 
virgin  purity,  in  whose  hallowed  sphere  no  guilty  tliought  can 
live. 

The  sudden  an-ival  of  orders  for  the  regiment  to  repair  to 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE   VILLAGE. 


24) 


the 


ohe  continent,  completed  the  confusion  of  his  mind.  He  re- 
mained for  a  short  time  in  a  state  of  tiie  most  painful  irresolu- 
tion ;  he  hesitated  to  connnunicate  the  tidings,  until  the  day 
for  marching  was  at  hand  ;  when  he  gave  her  the  intelligence 
in  the  course  of  an  evening  ramble. 

The  idea  of  parting  hud  never  before  occurred  to  her.  It 
broke  in  at  once  upon  her  dioam  of  felicity  ;  she  looked  upon 
it  as  a  sudden  and  insurmountable  evil,  and  wopt  with  the  guile- 
less simplicity  of  a  child.  He  drew  her  to  his  bosom  and  kissed 
the  tears  from  her  soft  check,  nor  did  he  meet  with  a  repulse, 
for  there  are  moments  of  mingled  sorrow  and  tenderness,  which 
(iallow  the  caresses  of  affection.  He  was  naturally  impetuous, 
and  the  sight  of  beauty  apparently  yielding  in  his  arms,  the 
confidence  of  his  power  over  her,  and  the  dread  of  losing  her 
forever,  all  conspired  to  overwhelm  his  better  feelings  —  he 
ventured  to  propose  that  she  should  leave  her  home,  and  be  the 
companion  of  his  fortunes. 

He  was  quite  a  novice  in  seduction,  and  blushed  and  faltered 
at  his  own  baseness  ;  but,  so  innocent  of  mind  was  his  intended 
victim,  that  she  was  at  first  at  a  loss  to  comprehend  his  mean- 
ing ;  —  and  why  she  should  leave  her  native  village,  and  th«/ 
humble  roof  of  her  parents.  When  at  last  the  nature  of  lii.> 
proposals  flashed  upon  her  pure  mind,  the  effect  was  withet 
ing.  She  did  not  weep  —  she  did  not  break  forth  into  re 
proaches  —  she  said  not  a  word  —  but  she  shrunk  back  aghasi* 
as  from  a  viper,  gave  him  a  look  of  anguish  that  pierced  to  hia 
very  soul,  and  clasping  her  hands  in  agony,  fled,  as  if  for  refuge, 
to  her  father's  cottage. 

The  officer  retired,  confounded,  humiliated,  and  repentant. 
It  is  uncertain  what  might  have  been  the  result  of  the  conflict 
of  his  feelings,  had  not  his  thoughts  been  diverted  by  tha 
bustle  of  departure.  New  scenes,  new  pleasures,  and  nev.r 
companions,  soon  dissipated  his  self-reproach,  and  stilled  his 
tenderness.  Yet,  amidst  the  stir  of  camps,  the  revelries  of 
garrisons,  the  array  of  armies,  and  even  the  din  of  battles,  his 
thoughts  would  sometimes  steal  back  to  the  scenes  of  rural 
quiet  and  village  simplicity  —  the  white  cottage  —  the  fcjotpath 
ttlong  the  silver  brook  and  up  the  hawthorn  hedge,  and  the 
little  village  maid  loitering  along  it,  leaning  on  his  arm  and 
listening  to  him  with  eyes  beaming  with  unconscious  affection. 

The  shock  which  the  poor  girl  had  received,  in  the  destruc- 
tion of  all  her  ideal  world,  had  indeed  been  cruel.  Paintings 
and  hysterics  had  at  first  shaken  her  tender  frame,  and  were 
succeeded  by  a  settled  and  pining  melancholy.     She  had  beheld 


248 


THE  SKKTCri  HOOK. 


from  her  window  the  march  of  tlie  departing  troops.  She  h.-id 
eeen  her  faithless  lovor  liorne  off,  as  if  in  triumph,  amidst  tho 
sound  of  drum  and  trumpet,  and  the  [)omp  of  arms.  SIk, 
strained  a  last  aching  gaze  after  him,  as  tiio  nioiiiing  sun  glit- 
tered about  his  figure,  and  his  plume  waved  in  the  I>reo'',e;  ho 
passed  away  like  a  bright  "iaiou  from  her  sight,  and  left  her  all 
in  darkness. 

It  would  be  trite  to  dwell  on  the  particulars  of  her  after- 
story.  It  was  like  other  tales  of  love,  mclanchol}-.  She  avoided 
society,  and  wandered  out  alone  in  the  walks  she  iiad  most, 
frequented  with  her  lover.  .She  sought,  like  the  stricken  doer, 
to  weep  in  silence  and  loneliness,  and  brood  over  the  barbed 
sorrow  that  rankled  in  her  soul.  Sometimes  she  would  be  seen 
late  of  an  evening  sitting  in  the  porch  of  a  village  church; 
and  the  milk-maids,  returning  from  the  fields,  would  now  iuul 
then  overhear  her,  singing  some  plaintive  ditty  in  the  haw- 
thorn walk.  She  became  fervent  in  her  devotions  at  church  ; 
and  as  the  old  people  saw  her  approach,  so  wasted  away,  yet 
with  a  hectic  bloom,  and  that  hallowed  air  wliich  melancholy 
diffuses  round  the  form,  they  would  make  way  for  her,  as  for 
something  spiritual,  and,  looking  after  her,  would  shake  tlitir 
heads  in  gloomy  foreboding. 

She  felt  a  conviction  that  she  was  hastening  to  the  tomb,  but 
looked  forward  to  it  as  a  place  of  rest.  The  silver  cord  that 
had  bound  her  to  existence  was  loosed,  and  there  seemed  to  I)i! 
no  more  pleasure  under  the  sun.  If  ever  her  gentle  bosom  had 
entertained  resentment  against  her  lover,  it  was  extinguished. 
She  was  incapable  of  angry  passions,  and  in  a  momciit  of  sad- 
dened tenderness  she  penned  him  a  farewell  letter.  It  vras 
couched  in  the  simplest  language,  but  touching  from  its  very 
simplicity.  She  told  him  that  she  was  dying,  and  did  not 
conceal  from  him  that  his  conduct  was  the  cause.  She  even 
depicted  the  sufferings  which  she  had  cx[)erienced  ;  but  con- 
cluded with  saying,  that  she  could  not  die  in  peace,  until  she 
bad  sent  him  her  forgiveness  and  her  blessing. 

By  degrees  he-  strength  declined,  and  she  could  no  longer 
leave  the  cottagf  •  :  could  only  totter  to  the  window,  where, 
propped  up  in  her  v,.ia.r,  it  was  her  enjoyment  to  sit  all  day 
and  look  out  upon  the  landscape.  Still  she  uttered  no  com- 
plaint, nor  imparted  to  any  one  the  malady  that  was  preying 
on  her  heart.  She  ".'.ever  even  mentioned  her  hover's  name ; 
but  would  lay  her  head  on  her  mother's  bosom  and  weep  iu 
silence.  Her  poor  parents  hung,  in  mute  anxiety,  over  tlii^ 
fa  ting  blossom  of  their  hopes,  still  llattering  themselves  thut  it 


■t.--^f-  p,  .»i>a>n»i4ngi^<i>.»i.i»  iiiiiimiM 


THE  PRIDE  OF  THE   VILLAGE. 


249 


might  again  revive  to  fieshness,  and  that  the  bright  unearthly 
blouin  wliieh  Hoinetinieu  tlubhed  her  ehcci^,  might  be  the  promise 
of  returning  he:ilth. 

In  lliis  way  .she  was  seated  between  them  one  Sunday  after- 
noon ;  her  iiancls  were  clasped  in  theirs,  the  lattice  was  thrown 
open,  and  tiic  soft  air  that  stole  in,  brought  with  it  the  fra- 
<irance  of  the  clustering  honeysuckle,  which  her  own  hands 
had  trained  round  the  window. 

Her  father  had  just  been  reading  a  chapter  in  the  Bible ;  it 
spoke  of  the  vanity  of  worldly  things,  and  of  the  joys  of  heaven  ;' 
it  seemed  to  liave  diffused  comfort  and  serenity  through  hei' 
bosom.  Her  eye  was  (ixed  on  the  distant  village  church  —  the 
bi'il  had  tolled  for  the  evening  service  —  the  last  villager  was 
lagging  into  the  porch  —  and  every  thing  had  sunk  into  that 
hallowed  stillness  peculiar  to  the  day  of  rest.  Her  parents 
were  gazing  on  her  with  yearning  hearts.  Sickness  and  sor- 
row, which  pass  so  roughly  over  some  faces,  had  given  to  hers 
the  expression  of  a  seraph's.  A  tear  trembled  in  her  soft 
blue  eye.  —  Was  she  thinking  of  her  faithless  lover?  —  or  were 
her  thoughts  wandering  to  that  distant  churchyard,  into  whose 
bosom  she  might  soon  be  gathered  ? 

Suddenly  the  clang  of  hoofs  was  heard — a  horseman  galloped 
to  the  cottage  —  he  dismounted  before  the  window  —  the  poor 
gill  gave  a  faint  exclamation,  and  sunk  back  in  her  chair:  — it 
was  her  repentant  lover!  He  rushed  into  the  house,  and  flew 
to  clasp  her  to  his  bosom  ;  but  her  wasted  form  —  her  death-like 
countenance  —  so  wan,  yet  so  lovely  in  its  desolation  —  smote 
l>lm  to  the  soul,  and  he  threw  himself  in  agony  at  her  feet. 
She  was  too  faint  to  rise  —  she  attempted  to  extend  her  trem- 
bling hand  —  her  lii)s  moved  as  if  she  spoke,  but  no  word  was 
aitit'ulated  —  she  looked  down  upon  him  with  a  smile  of  unut- 
terable tenderness,  and  closed  her  eyes  forever. 

Such  are  the  particulars  which  I  gathered  of  this  village 
jtory.  They  :ue  but  scanty,  and  I  am  conscious  have  little^ 
novelty  to  recommend  them.  In  the  present  rage  also  for 
strange  ineitlent  and  high-seasoned  narrative,  they  may  appear 
trite  and  insignificant,  but  they  interested  me  strongly  at  the 
time ;  and,  taken  in  connection  with  the  affecting  ceremony 
which  I  had  just  witnessed,  left  a  deeper  impression  on  my 
mind  than  many  circumstances  of  a  more  striking  nature.  I 
have  passed  through  the  place  since,  and  visited  the  church 
again  from  a  better  motive  than  mere  curiosity  It  was  a 
wintry  evening  ;  the  trees  were  stripped  of  their  foliage ;  the 
churchyard  looked  naked  and  mournful,  and  the  wind  rustled 


! 


250 


TUE  SKETCU-BOOK. 


coldly  through  the  dry  grass.  Evergreens,  however,  had  been 
planted  ul)out  the  grave  of  the  village  favorite,  and  osiers  were 
bent  over  it  to  keep  the  turf  uninjured.  The  church-door  was 
open,  and  1  stepped  m. — There  hung  the  chaplet  of  flowers 
and  the  gloves,  as  on  the  day  of  the  funeral :  the  flowers  were 
withered,  it  is  true,  but  care  seemed  to  have  been  taken  that  no 
dust  should  soil  their  whiteness.  I  have  seen  many  monunieiils, 
where  art  has  exhausted  its  powers  to  awaken  the  synipiiHiv 
of  the  spectator;  but  I  have  met  with  none  that  spoke  uu>\\'. 
touchingly  to  my  heart,  than  this  simple,  but  delicate  nienu'utc 
of  departed  innocence. 


THE  ANGLER. 


This  day  (Isimc  Nature  §eeraed  In  love, 

The  lUKty  .  -xp  begun  to  inovu, 

Fresh  juice    I'l  stir  th*  embrucliis  vhies, 

And  birdx  hua  drawn  their  viileiitinvH. 

The  jealoui*  trout  tliut  low  did  lie, 

KoBC  at  a  well  dlHHetnbled  lly. 

There  stood  my  friend,  with  puticnt  rIvIII, 

Attending  of  hix  treniblin«  quill.—  Siu  H.  WoTTOK. 

It  is  said  that  many  an  unlucky  urchin  is  induced  to  run 
away  from  his  family,  and  betake  himself  to  a  seafaring  life, 
from  reading  the  liistory  of  Robinson  Crusoe  ;  and  I  suspect 
that,  in  like  manner,  many  of  those  worthy  gentlemen,  who 
are  given  to  haunt  the  sides  of  pastoral  streams  with  angle- 
rods  in  hand,  may  trace  the  origin  of  their  passion  to  the  seduc- 
tive pages  of  honest  Izatik  Walton.  I  recollect  studying  his 
"Complete  Angler"  several  years  since,  in  compau}' with  a 
knot  of  friends  in  America,  and,  moreover,  that  we  were  all 
completely  bitten  with  the  angling  mania.  It  was  early  in  tlie 
year ;  but  as  soon  as  the  weather  was  auspicious,  and  that 
the  spring  began  to  melt  into  the  verge  of  summer,  we  took  rod 
in  hand,  and  sallied  into  the  country,  as  stark  mad  as  was  ever 
Don  Quixote  from  reading  books  of  chivalry. 

One  of  our  party  had  equalled  the  Don  in  the  fulness  of  his 
equipments ;  being  attired  cap-a-pie  for  the  enterprise.  He 
wore  a  broad-skirted  fustian  coat,  perplexed  with  half  a  hun- 
dred pockets ;  a  pair  oi  stout  shoes,  and  leathern  gaiters ;  a 
basket  slung  on  one  side  for  lish  ;  a  patent  rod  ;  a  landing  net, 
and  a  score  of  other  incouveaiences  only  to  be  found  in  the 


THE    ANGLER. 


I 


THE  ANGLER. 


251 


true  angler's  armory.  Thus  liarnesscd  for  the  field,  he  was  as 
great  a  matter  of  stare  and  wonderment  among  the  country 
folk,  who  had  never  seen  a  regular  angler,  as  was  the  steel-clad 
hero  of  La  Maneha  among  the  goat-herds  of  the  Sierra  Morena. 

Our  first  essay  was  along  a  mountain  brook,  among  the 
highlands  of  the  Hudson  —  a  most  unfortunate  place  for  the 
execution  of  those  piscatory  tactics  which  had  been  invented 
along  the  velvet  margins  of  quiet  English  rivulets.  It  was  one 
of  tiiose  wild  streams  that  lavish,  among  our  romantic  soli- 
tudes, unheeded  beauties,  euougli  to  fill  the  sketch-book  of  a 
hunter  of  the  picturesque.  Sometimes  it  would  leap  down 
rocky  shelves,  making  small  cascades,  over  which  the  trees 
threw  their  broad  balancing  sprays ;  and  long  nameless  weeda 
hung  in  fringes  from  the  impending  banks,  dripping  with  dia- 
mond drops.  Sometimes  it  would  brawl  and  fret  along  a  ravine 
in  the  matted  shade  of  a  forest,  filling  it  with  murmurs ;  and 
after  this  termagant  career,  would  steal  forth  into  open  day 
with  the  most  pUieid  demure  face  imaginable ;  as  I  have  seen 
some  pestilent  shrew  of  a  housewife,  after  filling  her  home  with 
uproar  and  ill-humor,  come  dimpling  out  of  doors,  swimming, 
and  courtesying,  and  smiling  upon  all  the  world. 

How  smoothl}'  would  this  vagrant  brook  glide,  at  such  times, 
througii  some  bosom  of  green  meadow  land,  among  the  moun- 
tains ;  where  the  quiet  was  only  interrupted  by  the  occasional 
tinkling  of  a  bell  from  the  lazy  cattle  among  the  clover,  or  the 
sound  of  a  wood-cutter's  axe  from  the  neighboring  forest ! 

For  my  part,  I  was  always  a  bungler, at  all  kinds  of  sport 
that  required  either  patience  or  adroitness,  and  had  not  angled 
above  half  an  hour,  before  I  had  completely  "  satisfied  the  sen- 
timent," and  convinced  myself  of  the  truth  of  Izaak  Walton's 
opinion,  that  angling  is  something  like  poetry  —  a  man  must  be 
born  to  it.  I  hooked  myself  instead  of  the  fish  ;  tangled  my 
line  in  every  tree  ;  lost  my  bait ;  bri«ke  my  rod  ;  until  I  gave  up 
the  attempt  in  despair,  and  passed  the  day  under  the  trees, 
reading  old  Izaak  :  satisfied  that  it  was  his  fascinating  vein  of 
honest  simi)licity  and  rural  feeling  that  had  bewitched  me,  and 
not  the  passion  for  angling.  My  companions,  however,  were 
more  persevering  in  their  (lehision.  I  have  them  at  this  mo- 
ment before  my  eyes,  stealing  along  the  border  of  the  brook, 
where  it  lay  open  to  the  day,  or  was  merely  fringed  b}'  shrubs 
and  bushes.  1  see  the  bittern  rising  with  hollow  scream,  as 
they  bri'uk  in  upon  his  rarely-invaded  haunt;  the  kingfisher 
watc'liing  tlieni  suspiciously  from  his  dry  tree  that  overhangs 
the  deep  black  mill-pond,  iu  the  gorge  of  the  hills;  the  tortoise 


il 


r,  '■ 

i  irji 


252 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


■  -vj 


letting  himself  slip  sideways  from  off  the  stone  or  log  on  which 
he  is  sunning  himself;  and  the  pauie-struek  frog  plumping 
in  headlong  as  they  approach,  and  spreading  an  alarm  througli- 
out  the  watery  world  around. 

I  recollect,  also,  that,  after  toiling  and  watching  and  creep- 
ing about  for  tlie  greater  part  of  a  day,  witli  scarcely  any  suc- 
cess, in  spite  of  all  our  admirable  apparatus,  a  lubberly  couutry 
urchin  came  down  from  the  hills,  with  a  rod  made  from  a 
branch  of  a  tree  ;  a  few  yards  of  twine  ;  and,  as  heaveu  shall 
help  me  !  I  believe  a  crooked  pin  for  a  hook,  baited  with  a  vile 
earth-worm  —  and  in  half  an  hour  caught  more  fish  tliau  we  had 
nibbles  throughout  the  day. 

But  above  ail,  I  recollect  the  "  good,  honest,  wholesome, 
hungry"  repast,  which  we  made  under  r  beecli-tree  just  by  a 
spring  of  pure  sweet  water,  that  stole  out  of  tlie  side  of  a  hill ; 
and  how,  wheu  it  was  over,  one  of  the  party  read  old  Izaak 
Walton's  scene  with  the  milkmaid,  while  1  lay  on  the  grass 
and  built  castles  in  a  bright  pile  of  clouds,  until  I  fell  asleep. 
All  this  may  appear  like  mere  egotism :  yet  1  cannot  refrain 
from  uttering  these  recollections  which  are  passing  like  a  strain 
of  music  over  my  mind,  and  have  been  called  up  by  an  agree- 
able scene  whicli  I  witnessed  not  long  since. 

In  a  morning's  stroll  along  the  banks  of  the  Alun,  a  beauti- 
ful little  stream  which  flows  down  from  the  Welsh  hills  and 
throws  itself  into  the  Dee,  my  attention  was  attracted  to  a 
group  seated  on  the  margin.  On  approaching,  I  found  it  to 
consist  of  a  veteran  angler  and  two  rustic  disciples.  Tiio 
former  was  an  old  fellow  with  a  wooden  leg,  with  clothes  very 
much,  but  very  carefully  patched,  betokening  poverty,  honestly 
come  by,  and  decently  maintained.  His  face  bore  tiu  marks 
of  former  storms,  but  present  fair  weatlier ;  its  furrows  had 
been  worn  into  an  habitual  smile ;  his  iron-gray  locks  hung 
about  his  ears,  and  he  had  altogether  the  good-humored  air  of 
a  constitutional  philosopher,  who  was  disposed  to  take  the 
world  as  it  went.  One  of  his  companions  was  a  ragged  wight, 
with  the  skulking  look  of  an  arrant  i)oacher,  and  I'll  warrant 
could  find  his  way  to  any  gentleman's  fish-pond  in  the  neigh- 
lurliood  in  the  darkest  night.  The  other  was  a  tall,  awkward, 
couutry  lad,  with  a  lounging  gait,  and  apparently  somewhat  of 
a  rustic  beau.  The  old  man  was  busy  examining  the  maw  of 
a  trout  which  he  had  just  killed,  to  discover  by  its  contents 
what  insects  were  seasonable  for  bait ;  and  was  lecturing  on  the 
subject  to  his  companions,  who  appeared  to  listen  with  infinite 
deference.      I   have   a  kiui'    feeling  toward  all  '•  brothers  of 


muig 


TUE  ANGLER. 


253 


the  angle,"  evei  since  I  read  Izaak  Walton.  They  are  men, 
he  affirms,  of  a  "  mild,  sweet,  and  peaceable  spirit;  "  and  my 
esteem  for  them  has  been  increased  since  1  met  witli  an  old 
"  Tretyse  of  fishing  with  tlie  Angle,"  in  which  are  set  forth 
uiany  of  the  maxims  of  their  inoffensive  fraternity.  "Take 
;.;oode  hede,"  sayeth  this  honest  little  tretyse,  "  that  in  going 
::bout  your  disportes  ye  open  no  man's  gates,  but  that  ye  siiet 
tlu'in  again.  Also  ye  shall  not  use  this  forsayd  crafti  disport  to.- 
1,0  cuviitousness  to  the  increasing  and  sparing  of  your  money 
only,  but  principally  lor  your  solace  and  to  cause  the  helth  of 
your  body  and  specyaliy  of  youi'  soule."  ^ 

I  thought  that  I  could  perceive  in  the  veteran  angler  before 
me  an  exemplitication  of  what  I  had  read ;  and  there  was  a 
clieerful  contentedness  in  his  looks,  that  quite  drew  me  towards 
him.  I  could  not  but  remark  the  gallant  manner  in  which  he 
stumped  from  one  part  of  the  brook  to  anotlier ;  waving  iiis 
rod  in  the  air,  to  keep  the  line  from  dragging  on  the  ground,  or 
catching  among  the  bushes ;  and  the  adroitness  witli  which  he 
would  throw  liis  tly  to  any  particular  place  ;  sometimes  skim- 
ming it  lightly  along  a  little  rapid ;  sometimes  casting  it  into 
one  of  those  dark  holes  made  by  a  twisted  root  or  overhanging 
bank,  in  which  the  large  trout  are  apt  to  lurk.  In  the  mean- 
while, he  was  giving  instructions  to  his  two  disciples  ;  showing 
them  the  manner  in  which  they  should  handle  their  rods,  fix 
their  flies,  and  play  them  along  the  surface  of  the  stream.  'J'l.e 
scene  brought  to  my  mind  the  instructions  of  the  sage  Piscator 
to  his  scholar.  The  country  around  was  of  that  pastoral  kind 
which  Walton  is  fond  of  describing.  It  was  a  part  of  the  great 
plain  of  Cheshire,  close  by  the  beautiful  vale  of  Gessford,  and 
just  where  the  inferior  Welsh  hills  begin  to  swell  up  from 
among  fresh-smelling  meadows.  The  day,  too,  like  that  re- 
corded in  his  work,  was  mild  and  sunshiny  ;  with  now  and  then 
a  soft  dropping  shower,  that  sowed  the  whole  earth  with  dia- 
jnonds. 

I  soon  fell  into  conversation  with  the  old  r.ngler,  and  was  so 
much  entertained,  that,  under  pretext  of  receiving  instructions 
in  his  art,  I  kept  company  with  him  almost  the  whole  day  ; 
wandering  along  the  banks  of  the  stream,  and  listening  to  his 


>  From  this  samo  treatise,  it  would  appear  that  angling  in  a  more  InduHtrloua  nnH 
devout  employiuuut  thun  It  is  geiieraliy  consld'.'red.  ''  l<\)r  wlien  ye  iJurjiOBe  to  go  on 
your  dIpixirtcM  tn  (ifliytigc,  yo  will  not  dcHyro  gn-iitlyn  many  luTsiiiis  with  you,  \vliit:li 
miulu  let  you  of  ytiur  tji""*-'-  And  tl)rtt  ye  may  serve  (fod  devoutly  in  nayinu'p 
effectually  your  euxlouialilo  prayers.  And  ihiiH  doylug,  yo  ahull  eschew  and  also 
nvoyde  many  vices,  ax  ydleness,  which  is  principuU  cause  to  Induce  man  to  manv  othci 
^'ices,  M  it  is  rijfbt  well  kuowu." 


254 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


n 


n 


talk.  He  was  very  communicative,  having  all  the  easy  garni- 
lity  of  cheerful  old  age  ;  and  I  fancy  v/as  a  little  tlaltered  by 
having  an  opportunity  of  displayin-j;  his  piscatory  lore  ;  for  wliu 
does  not  like  now  and  then  to  play  the  sage  ? 

He  had  been  much  of  a  rambler  in  his  day  ;  and  had  passed 
some  years  of  his  youth  in  America,  particularly  in  Savannuli, 
where  he  had  entered  into  trade,  and  had  been  ruined  by  tlu; 
indiscretion  of  a  partner.  He  had  afterward  experienced  many 
ups  and  downs  in  life,  until  he  got  into  the  navy,  where  his  lo 
was  carried  away  by  a  cannon-ball,  at  the  battle  of  Camper 
down.  This  was  the  only  stroke  of  i*eal  good  fortune  he  had 
ever  experienced,  for  it  got  him  a  pension,  which,  together  with 
some  small  paternal  property,  brought  him  in  a  revenue  of 
nearly  forty  pounds.  On  this  he  retired  to  his  native  village, 
where  he  lived  quietly  and  independently,  and  devoted  the 
remainder  of  his  life  to  the  "  noble  art  of  angling." 

I  found  that  he  had  read  Izaak  AValton  attentively,  and  he 
seemed  to  have  imbibed  all  his  simple  frankness  and  prevalent 
good-humor.  Though  he  had  been  sorely  buffeted  about  the 
world,  he  was  satisfied  that  the  world,  in  itself,  was  good  and 
beautiful.  Though  he  had  been  as  roughly  used  in  different 
countries  as  a  poor  sheep  that  is  fleeced  by  every  hedge  and 
thicket,  yet  he  spoke  of  every  nation  with  candor  and  kindness, 
appearing  to  look  only  on  the  good  side  of  things :  and  above 
all,  he  was  almost  the  only  man  I  had  ever  met  with,  who  had 
been  an  unfortunate  adventurer  in  America,  and  had  honesty 
and  magnanimity  enough  to  take  the  fault  to  his  own  door,  and 
not  to  curse  the  country. 

The  lad  that  was  receiving  his  instructions  I  learnt  was  the 
son  and  heir  apparent  of  a  fat  old  widow,  who  kei)t  the  village 
inn,  and  of  course  a  youth  of  some  expectation,  anc^  ';nich 
courted  by  the  idle,  gentleman-like  personages  of  the  place.  In 
taking  him  under  his  care,  therefore,  the  old  man  had  probably 
an  eye  to  a  privileged  corner  in  the  tap-room,  and  an  occasional 
cup  of  cheerful  ale  free  of  expense. 

There  is  certainly  something  in  angling,  if  we  could  forget, 
which  anglers  are  apt  to  do,  the  cruelties  and  tortures  inflicted 
on  worms  and  insects,  that  tends  to  produce  a  gentleness  of 
spirit,  and  a  pure  serenity  of  mind.  As  the  English  are  me- 
thodical even  in  their  recreations,  and  are  the  most  scientific  of 
sportsmen,  it  has  been  reduced  among  them  to  perfect  rule  and 
system.  Indeed,  "t  is  an  amusement  peculiarly  adapted  to  the 
mild  and  highly  cultivated  scenery  of  England,  where  every 
roughness  has  beea  softened  awny  from  tJbe  landscape.  It  is  de- 


THE  ANGLER. 


255 


lightf  111  to  saunter  along  those  limpid  streams  which  wander,  like 
veins  of  silver,  through  the  bosom  of  this  beautiful  country ;  lead- 
ing one  thrc  '»h  a  diversity  of  small  home  scenery;  sometimes 
winding  through  ornamented  grounds ;  sometimes  brimming  along 
through  rich  pasturage,  where  the  fresh  green  is  mingled  with 
sweet-smelling  flowers,  sometimes  venturing  'u  sight  of  villages 
and  hamlets ;  and  then  running  capriciously  away  into  shady 
retirements.  The  sweetness  a»id  serenity  of  nature,  and  the 
quiet  watchfulness  of  the  sport,  gradually  bring  on  pleasant  fits 
of  musing ;  which  are  now  and  then  agreeably  interrupted  by 
the  song  of  a  bird ;  the  distant  whistle  of  the  peasant ;  or  per- 
haps the  vagary  of  some  fish,  leaping  out  of  the  still  water, 
and  skimming  transiently  about  its  glassy  surface.  "  When  I 
would  beget  content,"  says  Izaak  Walton,  "  and  increase  con- 
fidence in  the  power  and  wisdom  and  providence  of  Almighty 
God,  I  will  walk  the  meadows  by  some  gliding  stream,  and 
there  contemplate  the  lilies  that  take  no  care,  and  those  very 
many  other  little  living  creatures  that  are  not  only  created,  but 
fed,  (man  knows  not  how)  by  the  goodness  of  the  God  of 
nature,  and  therefore  trust  in  him." 

I  cannot  forbear  to  give  another  quotation  from  one  of  those 
ancient  champions  of  angling,  which  breathes  the  same  innocent 
and  happy  spirit : 


!i:i' 


( 


Let  rae  live  harmleBsly,  and  near  the  brink 

Of  Trent  or  Avon  have  a  dwelling-place: 
Where  I  may  see  my  quill,  or  cork  down  sink, 

With  eager  bite  of  Pike,  or  Bleak,  or  Dace; 
And  on  the  world  and  ray  Creator  think  ; 

While  some  men  etrivc  ill-gotten  goods  t'  embrace; 
And  others  8;>end  their  time  in  base  excess 

Of  wine,  or  worse,  in  war  or  wa'itonuess. 

Let  them  that  will,  these  pastimes  still  pursue 

And  on  such  pleasing  fancies  feed  their  fill, 
8u  I  the  fields  and  meadows  green  may  view, 

And  daily  by  fresh  rivers  walk  at  will 
Among  the  daisies  and  the  violets  blue, 

Red  hyacinth  and  yellow  daffodil.* 

On  parting  with  the  old  angler,  I  inquired  after  his  place  of 
abode,  and  happening  to  be  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  village 
a  few  evenings  afterwards,  I  had  the  curiosity  to  seek  him  out. 
I  found   him  living  in  a  small  cottage,  containing  only  one 


*■  J.  Davora. 


,1 


256 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


f\ 


M 


room,  but  a  perfect  curiosity  in  its  method  and  arrangement. 
It  was  on  the  skirts  of  the  village,  on  a  green  bank,  a  little 
back  from  the  road,  with  a  small  garden  in  front,  stocked  with 
kitchen-herbs,  and  adorned  with  a  few  flowers.  The  whole 
front  of  the  cottage  was  overrun  with  a  honeysuckle.  On  the 
top  was  a  ship  for  a  weathercock.  The  interior  was  fitted  up 
in  a  truly  nautical  style,  his  ideas  of  comfort  and  convenience 
having  been  acquired  on  the  berth-deck  of  a  man-of-war.  A 
hammock  was  slung  from  the  ceiling,  which  in  the  day-time  was 
lashed  up  so  as  to  take  but  little  room.  From  the  centre  of  the 
chamber  hung  a  model  of  a  ship,  of  his  own  workmanship.  Two 
or  three  chairs,  a  table,  and  a  large  sea-chest,  formed  the  prin- 
cipal movables.  About  the  wall  were  stuck  up  naval  ballads, 
such  as  Admiral  Hosier's  Ghost,  All  in  the  Downs,  and  Tom 
Bowling,  intermingled  with  pictures  of  sea-fights,  among  which 
the  battle  of  Camperdown  held  a  distinguished  place.  The 
mantelpiece  was  decoi'ated  with  seashells ;  over  which  hung  a 
quadrant,  flanked  by  two  wood-cuts  of  most  bitter-looking 
naval  commanders.  His  implements  for  angling  were  carefully 
disposed  on  nails  and  hooks  about  the  room.  On  a  slit'lf  wtis 
arranged  his  library,  containing  a  work  on  jui^iling.  nuieh  worn  : 
a  Bible  covered  with  canvas  ;  an  odd  volume  or  two  of  voyugos  ; 
a  nautical  almanac;  and  a  book  of  songs. 

His  family  consisted  ol"  a  largo  l)hick  ( :it.  with  one  eye,  juk!  ;i 
parrot  which  he  had  caught  and  tanu'd.  and  c'(hK'iite(l  hinisi'U', 
;,i  tile  course  of  one  of  his  voyages ;  and  wiiidi  ulter>.d  :i  v;ii  id  v 
of  jca  ])hrase8,  with  th  ;  hoarse  orattlingtonoof  :i  vrV.iTui  be..!.. 
swain.  The  establishment  reminded  nio  of  that  of  the  roiiowncfi 
Robinson  Crusoe;  it  was  kept  in  neat  order,  every  thing  liein  ; 
"stowed  away"  with  the  regularity  of  a  shi|)  of  war;  and  I;" 
informed  me  that  he  "scoured  the  deck  eveiy  morning,  antl 
swept  it  between  meals." 

I  found  him  seated  on  a  bench  before  the  door,  smoking  liis 
pipe  in  the  soft  evening  sunshine. .  His  cat  was  purring  soberly 
on  the  threshold,  and  his  parrot  describing  some  strange  evolu- 
tions in  an  iron  ring,  that  swung  in  the  centre  of  his  cage.  He 
had  been  angling  all  day,  and  gave  me  a  historj'  of  his  sport 
with  as  much  minuteness  as  a  general  would  talk  over  a  cam- 
paign ;  being  particularly  animated  in  relating  the  manner  in 
which  he  had  taken  a  large  trout,  which  had  completely  tasked 
all  his  skill  and  wariness,  and  which  he  had  sent  as  a  trophy  to 
mine  hostess  of  the  inn. 

How  comforting  it  is  to  see  a  cheerful  and  contented  old  ago  ; 
and  to  behold  a  poor  fellow,  like  this   after  being  tem[)est-tost 


THE  ANGLER. 


257 


through  life,  safely  moored  in  a  snug  and  quiet  harbor  in  the 
evening  of  his  days !  ,  His  happiness,  however,  sprung  from 
within  himself,  and  was  independent  of  external  circumstances  ; 
for  he  had  that  inexhaustible  good-nature,  which  is  the  most 
precious  gift  of  Heaven  ;  spreading  itself  like  oil  over  the  trou- 
bled sea  of  thought,  and  keeping  the  mind  smooth  and  equable 
in  the  rougliest  weather. 

On  inquiring  further  about  him,  I  learnt  that  he  was  a  uni- 
versal favorite  in  the  village,  and  the  oracle  of  the  tap-room  ; 
where  he  delighted  the  rustics  with  his  songs,  and,  like  Sindbad, 
astonished  them  with  his  stories  of  strange  lands,  and  ship* 
wrecks,  and  sea-fights.  He  was  much  noticed  too  by  gentlemen 
sportsmen  of  the  neighborhood  ;  had  taught  several  of  them  the 
art  of  angling ;  and  was  a  privileged  visitor  to  their  kitchens. 
The  whole  tenor  of  his  life  was  quiet  and  inoffensive,  being 
principally  passed  about  the  neighboring  streams,  when  the 
weather  and  season  were  favorable ;  and  at  other  times  he 
employed  himself  at  horns,  preparing  his  fishing  tackle  for  the 
next  campaign,  or  manufacturing  rods,  nets,  and  flies,  for  his 
patrons  and  pupils  among  the  gentry. 

He  was  a  regular  attendant  at  church  on  Sundays,  though  he 
generally  fell  asleep  during  the  sermon.  He  had  made  it  his 
particular  request  tliat  when  he  died  he  should  be  buried  in  a 
green  spot,  which  he  could  see  from  his  seat  in  church,  and 
which  he  had  marked  out  ever  since  he  was  a  boy,  and  had 
thought  of  when  far  from  home  on  the  raging  sea,  in  danger  of 
being  food  for  the  fishes  —  it  was  the  spot  where  his  father  and 
mother  hac'  been  buried. 

I  have  done,  for  I  fear  that  my  reader  is  growing  weary ;  but 
I  could  not  refrain  from  drawing  the  i)icture  of  this  worthy 
"  brother  of  the  angle  ;  "  who  has  made  me  more  than  ever  in 
love  with  the  theory,  though  I  fear  I  shall  never  be  adroit  in 
the  practice  of  his  art ;  and  T  will  conclude  this  rambling  sketch 
in  the  words  of  honest  Izaak  AValton,  by  craving  tlie  blessing 
of  St.  Peter's  Master  upon  m}'  reader,  "  and  upon  all  that  are 
true  lovers  of  virtue  ;  and  dare  trust  in  his  providence  ;  and  be 
quiet ;  and  go  a  angling." 


258 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


THE  LEGEND  OF   SLEEPY   HOLLOW. 

(found  among  the  papkrs  of  the  late  DIEDRICH 

knickerbocker.) 

A  pleaning  land  of  drowgy  head  it  was, 

Of  dreamg  that  wave  before  the  half-»hnt  eye; 

And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass, 

Forever  Hushing  round  a  suramcr  sky. —  Castle  of  IndoUnif 


In  the  bosom  of  one  of  those  spacious  coves  which  inaent 
the  eastern  shore  of  the  Hudson,  at  that  broad  expansion  of 
the  river  denominated  by  tiie  ancient  Dutcli  navigators  the 
Tappan  Zee,  and  where  they  always  prudently  shortened  sail, 
and  implored  the  protection  of  St.  Nicholas  when  they  crossed, 
there  lies  a  small  market  town  or  ruial  port,  which  by  some  is 
called  Greensburgh,  but  which  is  more  generally  and  properly 
known  by  the  name  of  Tarry  Town.  This  name  was  giveu 
we  are  told,  in  former  days,  by  the  good  housewives  of  the 
adjacent  country,  fioni  the  inveterate  propensity  of  their  hus- 
bands to  linger  about  the  village  tavern  on  market  days.  lie 
that  as  it  may„  I  do  not  vouch  for  the  fact,  but  merely  advert 
to  it,  for  the  sake  of  being  precise  and  authentic.  Not  far 
from  this  village,  perhaps  about  two  miles,  there  is  a  little 
valley  or  rather  lap  of  land  among  high  hills,  which  is  one  of 
the  quietest  places  in  the  whole  world.  A  small  brook  glides 
through  it,  with  just  muimur  enough  to  lull  one  to  repose ;  and 
the  occasional  whistle  of  a  quail,  or  tapping  of  a  woodpecker, 
is  almost  the  only  sound  that  ever  breaks  in  upon  the  uniform 
tranquillity. 

I  recollect  that,  when  a  stripling,  my  first  exploit  in  squirrel- 
shooting  was  in  a  grove  of  tall  walnut-trees  that  shades  one 
side  of  the  valley.  I  had  wandered  into  it  at  noon-time  when 
all  nature  is  peculiarly  quiet,  and  was  startled  by  the  roar  of 
my  own  gun,  as  it  broke  the  sabbath  stillness  around,  and  was 
prolonged  and  reverberated  b}'  the  angry  echoes.  If  ever  1 
should  wish  for  a  retreat  whither  I  might  steal  from  the  world 
and  its  distractions,  and  dream  quietly  away  the  remnant  of  a 
troubled  life,  I  know  of  none  more  promising  than  this  little 
valley. 

From  the  listless  repose  of  the  place,  and  the  peculiar  char- 
acter of  its  inhabitants,  who  are  descendants  from  the  original 
Dutch  settlers,  this  sequeste  ed  glen  has  long  been  known  by 


the  gt 


being 
befon 
Sue 
which 
region 


'■J(*-VH..r 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 


259 


the  name  of  Sleept  Hollow,  and  its  rustic  lads  are  called  tha 
Sleepy  Hollow  Boys  throughout  all  the  neighboring  country. 
A  drowsy,  dreamy  influence  seems  to  hang  over  the  land,  and 
to  pervade  the  very  atmosphere.  Some  say  that  the  place  was 
bewitched  by  a  high  German  doctor,  during  the  early  days  of 
the  settlement;  others,  that  an  old  Indian  chief,  the  prop'iet 
or  wizard  of  liis  tribe,  hold  his  powwows  there  before  the  co  in 
try  was  discovered  by  jMaster  Ilendrick  Hudson.  Certain  ii,  is, 
the  place  still  continues  under  the  'jway  of  some  witching 
power,  that  holds  a  spell  over  the  minds  of  the  good  people, 
ciuising  them  to  walk  in  a  continual  reverie.  They  are  given 
to  all  kinds  of  marvellous  beliefs ;  are  subject  t«o  trances  and 
visions,  and  frequently  see  strange  sights,  and  hear  music  and 
voices  in  the  air.  The  whole  neighborhood  abounds  with  local 
tales,  haunted  spots,  and  twilight  fuii)erstitions ;  stars  shoot 
and  meteors  glare  oftener  across  the  valley  than  in  any  other 
part  of  the  country',  and  the  night-mare,  with  her  whole  nine 
fold,  seems  to  make  it  the  favorite  scene  of  her  gambols. 

The  dominant  spirit,  however,  that  haunts  this  enchanted 
region,  and  seems  to  be  commander-in-chief  of  all  the  powers 
of  the  air,  is  the  apparition  of  a  figure  on  horseback  without  a 
head.  It  is  said  l)y  some  to  be  the  ghost  of  a  Hessian  trooper, 
whose  head  had  been  carried  away  by  a  cannon-ball,  in  some 
nameless  battle  during  the  revolutionary  war,  and  who  is  ever 
and  anon  seen  by  the  country  folk,  hurrying  along  in  the  gloom 
of  night,  as  if  on  the  wings  of  the  wind.  His  haunts  are 
not  confined  to  the  valley,  but  extend  at  times  to  the  adja- 
cent roads  and  especially  to  the  vicinity  of  a  church  at  n'^ 
great  distance.  Indeed,  certain  of  the  most  authentic  histori- 
ans of  those  parts,  who  have  been  careful  in  collecting  and 
collating  the  floating  facts  conoerning  this  spectre,  allege,  that 
the  body  of  the  trooper  having  been  buried  in  the  churchyard, 
the  ghost  rides  forth  to  the  scene  of  battle  in  nightly  quest  of 
his  head,  and  that  the  rushing  speed  with  which  he  sometimes 
passes  along  the  hollow,  like  a  midnight  blast,  is  owing  to  his 
being  belated,  and  in  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  the  churchyard 
before  dajbreak. 

Such  is  the  general  purport  of  this  legendary  superstition, 
which  has  furnished  materials  for  many  a  wild  story  in  that 
region  of  shadows ;  and  the  spectre  is  known  at  all  the  country 
firesides,  by  the  name  of  The  Headless  Horseman  of  Sleepy 
Hollow. 

It  is  rennarkable,  that  the  visionary  propensity  I  have  men- 
tioned is  not  confined  to  the  native  inhabitants  of  the  valley, 


I  ■■  '■ 


•  '-^  V.^M.^'..i»HU^.»w  *i. 


^^^^^■•»'^'*-''»--»— ft-*   ^'  II*    »fci»ii^>  ►-^■'V*^,*-*  - 


260 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


■i 


i)r 


but  is  unconsciously  imbibed  by  every  one  who  resides  there 
for  a  time.  However  wide  awake  they  may  have  been  before 
they  entered  that  sleepy  region,  they  are  sure,  in  a  little  time, 
to  inhale  the  witching  influence  of  the  air,  and  begin  to  grow 
imaginative  —  to  dream  dreams,  and  see  apparitions. 

I  mention  this  peaceful  spot  with  all  possible  laud ;  for  it 
is  in  such  little  retired  Dutch  valleys,  found  here  and  there 
embosomed  in  the  great  State  of  New- York,  that  population, 
manners,  and  customs  remain  fixed,  while  tiie  great  torrent  of 
migration  and  improvement,  which  is  making  such  incessant 
changes  in  other  parts  of  this  restless  country,  sweeps  by  them 
unobserved.  They  are  like  those  little  nooks  of  still  water, 
which  border  a  rapid  stream,  where  we  may  see  the  straw  an(l 
bubble  riding  quietly  at  anchor,  or  slowly  revolving  in  their 
mimic  harbor,  undisturbed  by  the  rush  of  the  passing  current. 
Though  many  years  have  elapsed  since  I  trod  the  drowsy  shades 
of  Sleepy  Hollow,  yet  I  question  whether  I  should  not  still  find 
the  same  trees  and  the  same  families  vegetating  in  its  sheltered 
bosom.  ^ 

In  this  by-plaoe  of  nature  there  abode,  in  a  remote  period  of 
American  history,  that  is  to  say,  some  thirty  years  since,  a 
worthy  wight  of  the  name  of  Ichabod  Crane,  who  sojourned, 
or,  as  he  expressed  it,  "tarried,"  in  Sleepy  Hollow,  for  the 
purpose  of  instructing  the  children  of  the  vicinity.  He  was  a 
native  of  Connecticut,  a  State  which  supplies  the  Union  with 
pioneers  for  the  mind  as  well  as  for  the  forest,  and  sends  forth 
yearly  its  legions  of  frontier  woodsmen  and  country  schuol- 
masters.  The  cognomen  of  Crane  was  not  inapplicable  to 
his  person.  He  was  tall,  but  exceedingly  lank,  with  narrow 
shoulders,  long  arms  and  legs,  hands  that  dangled  a  mile  out 
of  his  sleeves,  feet  that  might  have  served  for  shovels,  and  hia 
whole  frame  most  loosely  hung  together.  His  head  was  small, 
and  flat  at  top,  with  huge  ears,  large  green  glassy  eyes,  and  n 
long  snipe  nose,  so  that  it  looked  like  a  weathercock  perched 
upon  his  spindle  neck,  to  tell  which  way  the  wind  blew.  To 
see  him  striding  along  the  profile  of  a  hill  on  a  windy  day. 
with  his  clothes  bagging  and  fluttering  about  him,  one  might 
hare  mistaken  him  for  the  genius  of  famine  descending  upon 
the  earth,  or  some  scarecrow  eloped  from  a  cornfield. 

His  school-house  was  a  low  building  of  one  large  room, 
rudely  constructed  of  logs;  the  windows  partly  glazed,  and 
partly  patched  with  leaves  of  old  copy-books.  It  was  most  in- 
geniously secured  at  vacant  hours  by  a  wythe  twisted  in  the 
handle  of  the  door,  and  stakes  set  against  the  window-shutters : 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  BOLLOW. 


set 


might 


go  that  though  a  thief  might  get  in  with  perfect  ease,  he  would 
lind  some  embairassment  in  getting  out :  —  an  idea  most  proba- 
bly borrowed  by  the  architect,  Yost  Van  Houten,  from  the 
mystery  of  an  eelpot.  The  school-house  stood  in  a  rather 
lonely  but  pleasant  situation,  just  at  the  foot  of  a  woody  hill, 
with  a  brook  running  close  by,  and  a  formidable  birch-tree 
growing  at  one  end  of  it.  From  hence  the  low  murmur  of  his 
pupil's  voices,  conning  over  their  lessons,  might  be  heard  iu 
a  drowsy  summer's  day,  like  the  hum  of  a  beehive  ;  interrupted 
now  and  then  by  the  authoiitative  voice  of  the  master,  in  the 
tone  of  menace  or  command ;  or,  peradventure,  by  the  appall- 
ing sound  of  the  birch,  as  he  urged  some  tardy  loiterer  along 
the  flowery  path  of  knowledge.  Truth  to  say,  lie  was  a  con- 
scientious man,  that  and  bore  in  mind  the  golden  maxim, 
"spare  the  rod  and  spoil  the  child."  — Ichabod  Crane's  scholars 
certainly  were  not  spoiled. 

I  would  not  have  it  imagined,  however,  that  he  was  one  of 
those  cruel  potentates  of  the  school,  who  joy  in  the  smart  of 
tlieir  subjects ;  on  the  contrary,  he  administered  justice  with 
discrimination  rather  than  severity  ;  taking  the  burthen  off  the 
backs  of  the  weak,  and  laying  it  on  those  of  the  strong.  Your 
mere  puny  stripling  that  winced  at  the  least  flourish  of  the  rod, 
was  passed  by  with  indulgence  ;  but  the  claims  of  justice  were 
satistied  by  inflicting  a  double  portion  on  some  little,  tough, 
wrong-headed,  broad-skirted  Dutch  urchin,  who  sulked  and 
swelled  and  grew  dogged  and  sullen  beneath  the  birch.  All 
this  he  called  ''  doing  his  duty  by  their  parents  ;  "  and  he  never 
inflicted  a  chastisement  without  following  it  by  the  assurance, 
so  consolatory  to  the  smarting  urchin,  that  "  he  would  remem- 
ber it  and  thank  him  for  it  the  longest  day  he  had  to  live." 

AVhon  school  hours  were  over,  he  was  even  the  companion 
and  playmate  of  the  larger  boys ;  and  on  holiday  afternoons 
would  convoy  some  of  the  smaller  ones  home,  who  happened 
to  have  pretty  sisters,  or  good  housewives  for  mothers,  noted 
for  the  comforts  of  the  cupboard,  indeed,  it  behooved  him  to 
keep  on  good  terms  with  his  pupils.  The  revenue  arising  from 
his  school  was  small,  and  would  have  been  scarcely  sufficient 
to  furnish  him  with  daily  bread,  for  he  was  a  huge  feeder,  and 
though  lank,  had  the  dilating  powers  of  an  anaconda ;  but  to 
help  out  his  maintenance,  he  was,  according  to  country  custom 
in  those  parts,  boarded  and  lodged  at  the  houses  of  the  farmers, 
whose  children  he  instructed  With  these  he  lived  successively, 
a  week  at  a  time,  thus  going  the  rounds  of  the  neighborhoodi 
with  all  his  worldlv  effects?  tied  up  in  a  cotton  handkerchief. 


i-*'.*^* 


?62 


THE  SKETCn-BOOK. 


■:W 


That  all  this  might  not  be  too  onerous  on  the  purses  of  his 
rustic  patrons,  who  are  apt  to  consider  the  costs  of  schooling  a 
grievous  burthen,  and  sclioolmasters  as  mere  drones,  he  Imd 
various  ways  of  rendering  himself  both  useful  and  agreeable. 
He  assisted  the  farmers  occasionally  in  tlie  lighter  labors  of 
their  farms ;  helped  to  make  hay  ;  mended  tl»e  fences ;  toolt 
the  horses  to  water ;  drove  the  cows  from  pasture  ;  and  cut 
wood  for  the  winter  fire.  He  laid  tiside,  too,  all  the  dominiint 
dignity  and  absolute  sway,  with  which  he  lorded  it  in  his  little 
eUipire,  the  school,  and  became  wonderfully  gentle  and  ingrati- 
ating. He  found  favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  mothers,  by  petting 
the  children,  particularly  the  youngest;  and  Hkc  the  lion  boUi, 
which  whilom  so  magnanimously  the  lamb  lid  hold,  ho  would 
sit  with  a  child  on  one  knee,  and  rock  a  cradle  with  his  foot  for 
whole  hours  together. 

In  addition  to  his  other  vocations,  he  was  the  singing-master 
of  the  neighborhood,  and  picked  up  many  bright  shillings  by 
instructing  the  young  folks  in  psalmody.  It  was  a  matter  of 
no  little  vanity  to  him  on  Sundays,  to  take  his  station  in  front 
of  the  church  gallery,  with  a  band  of  chosen  singers  ;  where,  in 
his  own  mind,  he  comipletely  carried  away  the  palm  from  the 
parson.  Certain  it  is,  his  voice  resounded  far  above  all  the  rest 
of  the  congregation,  and  there  are  peculiar  quavers  still  to  be 
heard  in  that  church,  and  which  may  even  be  heard  half  a  mile 
off,  quite  to  the  opposite  side  of  tlie  mill-pond,  on  a  still  Sunday 
morning,  which  are  said  to  be  legitimately  descended  from  the 
nose  of  Ichabod  Crane.  Thus,  by  divers  little  makeshifts,  in 
that  ingenious  way  which  is  commonly  denominated  "  by  hook 
and  by  crook,"  the  worthy  pedagogue  got  on  tolerably  enough, 
and  was  thought,  by  all  who  understood  nothing  of  the  labor  of 
head-work,  to  have  uiWonderfuUy  easy  life  of  it. 

The  schoolmaster  is  generally  a  man  of  some  importance  In 
the  female  circle  of  a  rural  neighborhood  ;  being  coiisidorcd  :i 
kind  of  idle  gentleman-like  personage,  of  vaslly  supeiior  taste 
and  accomplishments  to  the  rough  country  swains,  and,  in- 
deed, inferior  in  learning  only  to  the  parson.  His  appearance, 
therefore,  is  apt  to  occasion  some  little  stir  at  the  tea-table  of  a 
farm-house,  and  the  addition  of  a  s  ipernumerary  dish  of  cakes 
or  sweetmeats,  or,  peradventure,  tlm  parade  of  a  silver  teapot. 
Our  man  of  letters,  therefore,  was  peculiarly  happy  in  the  smiles 
of  all  the  country  damsels.  How  he  would  figure  among  them 
in  the  ciiurchyard,  between  services  on  Sundays !  gathering 
grapes  for  them  from  the  wiltl  vines  that  overrun  the  surround- 
ing trees  ;  reciting  for  their  amusement  all  the  epitaphs  on  the 


'  Th( 
from  iu 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 


263 


tombstones ;  or  sauntering  with  a  whole  bevy  of  them,  along 
the  banks  of  tbo  adjacont  inill-poud :  while  the  more  bashful 
country  bumpkins  hung  sheepishly  back,  envying  his  superior 
elegance  and  address. 

From  his  lialf  itinerant  life,  also,  he  was  a  kind  of  travelling 
jrazette,  ciirrying  the  whole  budget  of  local  gossip  from  house 
to  house  ;  so  thM  his  appearance  was  always  greeted  with  satis- 
taction.  He  vvas,  moreover,  esteemed  by  the  women  as  a  man 
of  great  erudition,  for  he  had  read  several  books  quite  through, 
and  was  a  perfect  mastter  of  Cotton  Mather's  History  of  New- 
Eiij^land  Witchciaft,  in  which,  by  the  way,  he  most  firmly  and 
potently  believed. 

He  was,  in  fact,  an  odd  mixture  of  small  shrewdness  and 
simple  credulity.  His  appetite  for  the  marvellous,  and  his 
powers  of  digesting  it,  were  equally  extraordinary ;  and  both 
had  been  increased  by  his  residence  in  th»s  spell-bound  region. 
No  tale  was  too  gross  or  monstrous  for  his  capacious  swallow. 
It  vvas  often  his  delight,  after  his  school  was  dismissed  in  the 
afternoon,  to  stretch  himself  on  the  rich  bed  of  clover,  border- 
ing the  little  brook  that  whimpered  by  his  school-house,  and 
there  con  over  old  Mather's  direful  tales,  until  the  gathering 
dusk  of  evening  made  the  printed  page  a  mere  mist  before  his 
eyes.  Then,  as  he  wended  his  way,  by  swamp  and  stream 
aud  awful  woodland,  to  the  farm-house  where  he  happened  to 
be  quartered,  every  sound  of  nature,  at  that  witching  hour, 
fluttered  his  excited  imagination  ;  the  moan  of  the  whip-poor- 
will  '  from  the  hill-side ;  the  boding  cry  of  the  tree-toad,  that 
harbinger  of  storm  ;  the  dreary  hooting  of  the  screech-owl ;  or 
the  sudden  rustling  in  the  thicket,  of  birds  frightened  from 
their  roost.  The  tire-Hies,  too,  which  sparkled  most  vividly  in 
the  darkest  places,  now  and  then  startled  him,  as  one  of  un- 
common brightness  would  stream  across  his  path ;  and  if,  by 
chance,  a  huge  blockhead  of  a  beetle  came  winging  his  blunder- 
ing flight  against  him,  the  poor  varlet  was  ready  to  give  up  the 
ghost,  with  the  idea  that  he  was  struck  with  a  witch's  token. 
His  only  resource  on  such  occasions,  either  to  drown  thought, 
or  drive  away  evil  spirits,  was  to  sing  psalm  tunes  ;  —  and  the 
good  people  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  as  the\'  sat  by  their  doors  of 
an  evening,  were  often  filled  with  awe,  at  hearing  his  nasal 
melody,  "in  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out,"  floating  from 
the  distant  hill,  or  along  the  dusky  road. 


I 


'  The  whip-poor-will  Is  a  bird  which  in  only  heard  at  night, 
from  ita  note,  which  ia  thought  to  reMmbia  thoM  wordH. 


It  receivM  its  t»nie. 


264 


THE  SKErCB-BOOK. 


Another  of  his  sources  of  fearful  pleasure  was,  to  pass  lonf; 
winter  evenings  with  the  old  Dutch  wives,  as  they  sat  spiunnK- 
l\y  the  fire,  with  a  row  of  apples  roasting  and  spluttering  along 
the  hearth,  and  listen  to  their  marvellous  tales  of  ghosts,  and 
goblins,  and  haunted  fields  and  haunted  brooks,  and  haunted 
bridges  and  haunted  houses,  and  particularly  of  the  headless 
horseman,  or  galloping  Hessian  of  the  Hollow,  as  they  some- 
times called  him.  He  would  delight  them  equally  by  his  anec- 
dotes of  witchcraft,  and  of  the  direful  omens  and  portentous 
sights  and  sounds  in  the  air,  which  prevailect  in  the  earlier 
times  of  Connecticut ;  and  would  frighten  them  wofully  witli 
speculations  upon  comets  and  shooting  stars,  and  with  tlio 
alarming  fact  that  the  world  did  absolutely  turn  round,  and 
that  they  were  half  the  time  topsy-turvy  ! 

But  if  there  was  a  pleasure  in  all  this,  while  snugly  cuddling 
in  the  chimney  corner  of  a  chamber  that  was  all  of  a  ruddy 
glow  from  the  crackling  wood  fire,  and  where,  of  course,  no 
spectre  dared  to  show  his  face,  it  was  dearly  purchased  by  llio 
terrors  of  his  subsequent  walk  homewards.  What  fearful 
shapes  and  shadows  beset  his  path,  amidst  the  dim  and  ghastly 
[,Hre  of  a  snowy  night!  —  With  what  wistful  look  did  lie  eye 
every  trembling  ray  of  light  streaming  across  the  waste  (iclds 
from  some  distant  window  !  —  How  often  was  he  appalled  by 
some  shrub  covered  with  snow,  which  like  a  sheeted  spectre 
beset  his  very  path  .  — How  often  did  he  shrink  with  curdling 
awe  at  the  sound  of  his  own  steps  on  the  frosty  crust  beneath 
his  feet ;  and  dread  to  look  over  his  shoulder,  lest  he  sliould 
behold  some  uncouth  being  tramping  close  behind  him!  —  and 
how  often  was  he  thrown  into  complete  dismay  ])y  some  rush- 
ing blast,  howling  among  the  trees,  in  the  idea  tiuit  it  was  the 
galloping  Hessian  on  one  of  his  nightly  seourings  ! 

All  these,  however,  were  mere  terrors  of  the  night,  phantoms 
of  the  raind,  that  walk  in  darkness :  and  tiunigh  he  had  seen 
many  spectres  in  his  time,  and  been  more  than  once  beset  by 
Satan  in  divers  shapes,  in  his  lonely  perambulations,  yet  day- 
light put  an  end  to  all  these  evils  ;  and  he  would  have  passed 
a  pleasant  life  of  it,  in  despite  of  the  Devil  and  all  his  works, 
if  his  path  had  not  been  crossed  by  a  being  that  causes  more 
perplexity  tv>  mortal  man,  than  ghosts,  goblins,  and  tiie  whole 
race  of  witches  put  together;  and  that  was  —  a  woman. 

Among  the  musical  disciples  who  assembled,  one  evening 
in  each  week  to  receive  his  instructions  in  psalmody,  wa* 
Katrina  Van  Tassel,  lue  daughter  and  only  child  of  a  siilislaii- 
tiul  Dutch  farmer.     She  was  a  blooming  lass  of  fresh  eighteen; 


THE   LEGEND    OF   SLEEPY   HOLLOW. 


265 


plump  as  a  partridge ;  ripe  and  melting  and  rosy-cheeked  as 
one  of  her  father's  peaches,  and  universall}'  famed,  not  merely 
for  her  beauty,  but  her  vast  expectations.  She  was  withal  a 
little  of  a  coquette,  as  might  be  perceived  even  in  her  dress, 
which  was  a  mixture  of  ancient  and  modern  fashions,  as  most 
suited  to  set  off  her  charms.  She  wore  the  ornaments  of  pure 
yellow  gold,  which  her  great-great-grandmother  had  brought 
over  from  Saardam  ;  the  tempting  stomacher  of  the  olden  time, 
and  withal  a  prove iiingly  short  petticoat,  to  display  the  prettiest 
foot  and  ankle  in  the  country  round. 

Ichabod  Crane  had  a  soft  and  foolish  heart  toward  the  sex ; 
and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  so  tempting  a  morsel  soon 
found  favor  in  his  eyes,  more  especially  after  he  had  visited  her 
in  iier  paternal  mansion.  Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  was  a  perfect 
picture  of  a  thriving,  contented,  liberal-hearted  farmer.  He 
seldom,  it  is  true,  sent  either  his  eyes  or  his  thoughts  beyond 
the  boundaries  of  his  own  farm  ;  but  within  those,  every  thing 
was  snug,  happy,  and  well-conditioned.  He  was  satisfied  with 
his  wealth,  but  not  proud  of  it;  and  piqued  himself  upon  the 
hearty  abundance,  rather  than  the  style  in  which  he  lived.  His 
stronghold  was  situated  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  in  one  of 
those  green,  sheltered,  fertile  nooks,  in  which  the  Dutch  farm- 
ers are  so  fond  of  nestling.  A  great  elm-tree  spread  its  broad 
branches  over  it ;  at  the  foot  of  which  bubbled  up  a  spring  of 
the  softest  and  sweetest  water,  in  a  little  well,  formed  of  a 
barrel ;  and  then  stole  sparkling  away  through  the  grass,  to  a 
neighboring  brook,  that  babbled  along  among  alders  and  dwarf 
willows.  Hard  by  the  f.-rm-house  was  a  vast  barn,  that  might 
have  sei-ved  for  a  church;  CNci-y  window  and  crevice  of  which 
seemed  bursting  forth  with  the  treasures  of  the  farm ;  the  flail 
was  busily  resounding  within  it  from  morning  to  night ;  swal- 
lows and  martens  skimmed  twittering  about  the  eaves ;  and  rows 
of  pigeons,  some  with  one  eye  turned  up,  as  if  watching  the 
wonther,  some  with  their  heads  under  their  wings,  or  buried  in 
their  bosoms,  and  others,  swelling,  and  cooing,  and  bowing 
about  their  dames,  were  enjoying  the  sunshine  on  the  "oof. 
Sleek,  unwieldy  poikers  were  grunting  in  the  repose  and 
abundance  of  their  pens,  whence  sallied  forth,  now  and  then, 
troops  of  sucking  pigs,  as  if  to  snuff  the  air.  A  stately  squad- 
ron of  snowy  geese  were  riding  in  an  adjoining  pond,  convoy- 
ing whole  fleets  r^f  ducks  ;  regiments  of  turkeys  were  gobbling 
through  the  farm-yard,  and  guinea-fowls  fretting  about  it  like 
ill-tempered  housewives,  with  their  peevish,  discontented  cry. 
Before  the  barn  door  strutted  the  gallant  cock,  that  pattern  of 


'\  ■■ 


^TqV'^^fr'A^'V* 


266 


THE  SKETCH -BOOK. 


i     I 


a  husband,  a  warrior,  and  a  fine  gentleman  ;  clapping  his  bur- 
nished  wirag  and  crowing  in  the  pride  and  gladness  of  his 
heart-  c^  otimes  tearing  up  the  earth  with  his  feet,  and  then 
generously  calling  his  ever-hungry  family  of  wives  and  chil- 
dren to  enjoy  the  rich  morsel  which  he  had  discovered. 

The  pedagogue's  mouth  watered,  as  he  looked  upon  tliis 
sumptuous  promise  of  luxurious  winter  fare.  In  his  dcvoiiriiii>; 
mind's  eye,  he  pictured  to  himself  every  roasting  pig  runuing 
about,  with  a  pudding  in  his  belly,  and  an  apple  in  his  mouth ; 
the  pigeons  were  snugly  put  to  bed  in  a  comfortable  pie,  and 
1  ucked  in  with  a  coverlet  of  crust ;  the  ge-se  were  swimming 
In  their  own  gravy  ;  and  the  ducks  pairing  cosily  in  dishes,  like 
snug  married  couples,  with  a  decent  competency  of  onion  sauce. 
In  the  porkers  he  saw  carved  out  the  future  sleek  side  of  bacon, 
and  juicy  relishing  ham ;  not  a  turkey,  but  he  beheld  dalutily 
trussed  up,  with  its  gizzard  under  its  wing,  and,  i)eradvcnturo, 
a  necklace  of  savory'  sausages ;  and  even  bright  chantkleor 
himself  lay  sprawling  on  his  back,  in  a  side  dish,  with  uplifted 
claws,  as  if  craving  that  quarter  which  his  chivalrous  spirit  dis- 
dained to  ask  while  living. 

As  the  enraptured  Ichabod  fancied  all  this,  and  as  he  rolled 
his  great  green  eyes  over  the  fat  meadow  lands,  the  rich  fields 
of  wheat,  of  rye,  of  buckwheat,  and  Indian  corn,  and  the  or- 
chards burthened  with  rudd}'  fruit,  which  surrounded  the  warm 
tenement  of  Van  Tassel,  his  heart  yearned  after  the  damsel 
who  was  to  inherit  these  domains,  and  his  imagination  ex- 
panded with  the  idea,  how  they  might  be  readily  turned  into 
cash,  and  the  money  invested  in  immense  tracts  of  wild  land, 
and  shingle  palaces  in  the  wilderness.  Nay,  his  busy  fancy 
already  realized  his  hopes,  and  presented  to  him  the  blooming 
Katrina,  with  a  whole  family  of  children,  mounted  on  the  top 
of  a  wagon  loaded  with  household  trumpery,  with  pots  and 
kettles  dangling  beneath ;  and  he  beheld  himself  bestriding  a 
pacing  mare,  with  a  colt  at  her  heels,  setting  out  for  Kentucky, 
Tennessee  —  or  the  Lord  knows  where  ! 

When  he  entered  the  house,  the  conquest  of  his  heart  was 
complete.  It  was  one  of  those  spacious  farm-houses,  with  high' 
ridged,  but  lowly-sloping  roofs,  built  in  the  style  handed  down 
from  the  first  Dutch  settlers.  The  low  projecting  caves  form- 
ing a  piazza  along  the  front,  capable  of  being  closed  up  in  bad 
weather.  Under  this  were  hung  flails,  harness,  various  utensils 
of  husbandry,  and  nets  for  fishing  in  the  neighboring  river. 
Bpnehes  were  built  along  the  sides  for  summer  use  ;  and  a  great 
•pinning-wbeel  at  one  end,  and  a  churn  at  the  other,  showed 


THE  LEG  EN  B  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 


267 


^j-< 


the  various  uses  to  which  this  important  porch  niiglit  be  de- 
voted. From  this  piazza  the  wondering  Ichabod  entered  the 
hall,  which  formed  tlie  centre  of  the  mansion,  and  the  place  of 
usual  residence.  Here  rows  of  resplendent  pewter,  ranged  on  a 
long  dresser,  dazzled  his  eyes.  In  one  corner  stood  a  huge  bag 
of  wool,  ready  to  be  spun ;  in  another,  a  qujiutity  of  linsej- 
woolsey,  just  from  the  loom  ;  ears  of  Indian  corn,  and  strings  of 
dried  apples  and  peaches,  hung  in  <;ay  festoons  along  the  walls, 
mingled  with  the  gaud  of  red  pei)peis ;  and  a  door  left  ajar, 
gave  him  a  peep  into  the  best  parlor,  whore  the  claw-footed 
chairs,  and  dark  mahogany  tables,  shone  like  mirrors ;  and- 
irons, with  their  accompanying  shovel  and  tongs,  glistened 
from  their  covert  of  asparagus  tops ;  mock-oranges  and  conch 
shells  decorated  the  mantelpiece  ;  strings  of  various  colored 
birds'  eggs  were  suspended  above  it ;  a  great  ostrich  egg  was 
hung  from  the  centre  of  the  room,  and  a  corner  cupboard, 
knowingly  left  open,  displayed  immense  treasures  of  old  silver 
and  well-mended  china. 

From  the  moment  Ichabod  laid  his  eyes  upon  these  regions 
of  delight,  the  peace  of  his  mind  was  at  an  end,  and  his 
only  study  was  how  to  gain  the  affections  of  the  peerless 
daughter  of  Van  Tassel.  In  this  enterprise,  however,  he  had 
more  real  difficulties  than  generally  fell  to  the  lot  of  a  knight- 
errant  of  yore,  who  seldom  had  any  thing  but  giants,  enchant- 
ers, fiery  dragons,  and  such  like  easily  conquered  adversaries, 
to  contend  with  ;  and  had  to  make  his  way  merely  through 
gates  of  iron  and  brass,  and  walls  of  adamant  to  the  castle- 
keep  where  the  lady  of  his  heart  was  confined ;  all  which  he 
achieved  as  easily  as  a  man  would  carve  his  way  to  the  centre 
of  a  Christmas  pie,  and  then  the  lady  gave  him  her  hand  as  a 
matter  of  course.  Ichabod,  on  the  contrary,  had  to  win  his 
way  to  the  heart  of  a  country  coquette  beset  with  a  labyrinth 
of  whims  and  caprices,  which  were  forever  presenting  new 
difTlculties  and  impediments,  and  he  had  to  encounter  a  host  of 
fearful  adversaries  of  real  flesh  and  blood,  the  numerous  rustic 
admirers,  who  beset  every  poi  tal  to  her  heart ;  keeping  a  watch- 
lul  and  angry  eye  upon  each  other,  but  ready  to  fly  out  in  the 
conini>.n  cause  against  any  new  competitor. 

Among  these  the  most  formidable  was  a  burly,  roaring, 
roystermg  blade  of  the  name  of  Abraham,  or  according  to 
the  Dutch  abbreviation,  Brom  Van  Brunt,  the  hero  of  the 
country  round,  which  rang  with  his  feats  of  strength  and  har- 
dihood. He  was  broad-shouldered  and  double-jointed,  with 
6hort  curly  black  hair,  and  a  bluff  but  not  unpleasant  coun* 


¥■ 


268 


TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


n; 


tenance,  having  a  minglecl  air  of  fun  and  arrogance.  From 
his  Herculean  frame  and  great  powers  of  limb,  he  had  received 
the  nickname  of  Brom  Bones,  by  which  he  was  universally 
known.  He  was  famed  for  great  knowledge  and  skill  in 
horsemanship,  being  as  dexterous  on  horseback  as  a  Tartar. 
He  was  foremost  at  all  races  and  cock-fights,  and  with  the 
ascendency  which  bodily  strength  acquires  in  rustic  life, 
was  the  umpire  in  all  disputes,  setting  his  hat  on  one  side, 
aixd  giving  his  decisions  with  an  air  and  tone  n'^lmitting  of 
no  gainsay  or  appeal.  He  was  always  ready  for  either  a 
fight  or  a  frolic;  but  had  more  mischief  than  ill-will  in 
his  composition ;  and  with  all  his  overbearing  roughness  there 
i^as  a  strong  dash  of  waggish  good-humor  at  bottom.  He 
had  three  or  four  boon  companiono  who  regarded  him  as  their 
model,  and  at  the  head  of  whom  he  scoured  the  country, 
attending  every  scene  of  feud  or  merriment  for  miles  round. 
In  cold  weather  he  was  <listiiiguished  by  a  fur  cap,  surmounted 
with  a  flaunting  fox's  tail ;  and  when  the  folks  at  a  country 
gatheruig  descried  this  well-known  crest  at  a  distance,  whisking 
about  among  a  squad  of  hard  riders,  they  always  stood  by  for 
a  squall.  Sometimes  his  crew  would  be  heard  dashing  along 
past  tlie  farm-houses  at  midnight,  with  wlioop  and  h.illoo,  like 
a  troop  of  Don  Cossacks,  and  the  old  danios,  startled  out  of 
their  sleep,  would  listen  for  a  moment  till  the  hurry-scurry  had 
clattered  by,  and  then  exclaim,  "  Ay,  there  goes  Brom  Bonos 
and  his  gang!  "  The  neighbors  looked  upon  him  with  a  mix- 
ture of  awe,  admiration,  and  good-will ;  and  when  any  madcap 
prank  or  rustic  brawl  occurred  in  the  vicinity,  always  shook 
their  heads,  and  warranted  Brom  Bones  was  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

This  rantipole  hero  had  for  some  time  singled  out  the  bloom- 
ing Katrina  for  the  object  of  his  uncouth  gallantries,  and 
though  his  amorous  toyings  were  something  like  the  gentle 
caresses  and  endearments  of  a  bear,  yet  it  was  whispered  that 
she  did  not  altogether  discourage  his  hopes.  Certain  it  is,  his 
advances  were  signals  for  rival  candidates  to  retire,  who  felt 
no  inclination  to  cross  a  lion  in  his  amours ;  insomuch,  that 
when  his  horse  was  seen  tied  to  Van  Tassel's  paling,  on  a 
Sunday  night,  a  sure  sign  that  his  master  was  courf  ng.  or,  as 
it  is  tein.ed,  "  sparking,"  within,  all  other  suitors  passed  by  in 
despair,  and  carried  the  war  into  other  quarters. 

Such  was  the  formidable  rival  with  whom  Ichabod  Crane  had 
to  contend,  and  considering  all  things,  a  stouter  man  than  he 
would  have  shrunk  from  the  competition,  and  a  wiser  man  would 
have  despaired.     He  had,  however,  a  happy  mixtuie  of  plia- 


nor. 


THE  LEGEM)   OF  SLEEPY  BOLLOW. 


269 


bility  and  perseverance  in  his  nature ;  he  was  in  form  and  spirit 
hke  a  supple-jack  —  yielding,  but  tough;  thougli  lie  bent,  he 
never  broke  ;  and  though  he  bowed  beneath  the  slightest  pressure, 
yet  the  moment  it  was  away — jerk!  —  he  was  as  erect,  and 
carried  his  head  as  high  as  ever. 

To  have  taken  the  field  openly  against  his  rival,  would  have 
been  madness ;  for  he  was  not  a  man  to  be  thwarted  in  his 
amours,  an}'  more  than  that  stormy  lover,  Achilles.  Ichabod, 
therefore,  made  his  advances  in  a  quiet  and  gently-insiuualing 
manner.  Under  cover  of  his  character  of  singing-master,  he 
made  frequent  visits  at  the  farm-house ;  not  that  he  had  any 
thing  to  apprehend  from  the  meddlesome  interference  of  parents, 
which  is  so  often  a  stumbling-block  in  the  path  of  lovers.  Bait 
Van  Tassel  was  an  easy  indulgent  soul ;  he  loved  his  daughter 
better  even  than  his  pipe,  and,  like  a  reasonable  man,  and  an  ex- 
cellent father,  let  her  have  her  way  in  ever}-  thing.  His  notable 
little  wife,  too,  had  enough  to  do  to  attend  to  her  housekeepiug: 
and  manage  her  poultry;  for,  as  she  sagely  observed,  ducks 
and  geese  are  foolish  things,  and  must  be  looked  after,  but 
girls  can  take  care  of  themselves.  Thus,  while  the  busy  dame 
bustled  about  the  house,  or  plied  her  spinning-wheel  at  one  end 
of  the  piazza,  honest  Bait  would  sit  smoking  his  evening  pipe 
at  the  other,  watching  the  achievements  of  a  little  wooden  war- 
rior, who,  armed  with  a  sword  in  each  hand,  was  most  valiantly 
lighting  tlie  vvind  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  barn.  In  the  mean 
time,  Ichabod  would  carry  on  his  suit  with  the  daughter  by  the 
side  of  the  sp'-ing  under  the  great  elm,  or  sauntering  along  iu 
tlie  twilight,  that  hour  so  favorable  to  the  lover's  eloquence. 

I  profess  not  to  know  how  women's  hearts  are  wooed  and 
won.  To  me  they  have  always  been  matters  of  riddle  and  ad- 
miration. Some  seem  to  have  but  one  vulnerable  point,  or  door 
of  access ;  while  others  have  a  tliousand  avenues,  and  may  be 
captured  in  a  thousand  different  ways.  It  is  a  great  triumph 
of  skill  to  gain  the  former,  but  a  still  greater  proof  of  general- 
ship to  maintain  possession  of  the  latter,  for  a  man  must  battlo 
for  his  fortress  at  every  door  anil  window.  He  who  wins  ;i 
thousand  common  hearts,  is  therefore  entitled  to  some  renown  ; 
but  he  who  keeps  undisputed  swav  orer  tlie  heart  of  a  ccquetlc, 
is  indeed  a  hero.  Certain  it  is,  this  was  :>ot  liie  case  with  Vae 
redoubtable  Brom  Bones ;  and  from  the  moment  Ichal)od  Crane 
nuule  his  advances,  the  interests  of  the  former  evidently  de- 
cliued  :  his  horse  was  uo  longer  seen  tied  at  the  i)alings  on 
Sunday  nights,  and  a  deadly  feud  gradually  arose  betweeu  him 
and  the  preceptor  of  ISleepy  Hollow. 


i! 


■=>|6mss»*.»^*; 


270 


THE  SKETCn-BOOK. 


1     1 


Brom,  who  bad  a  degree  of  rough  chivalry  in  his  nature, 
would  fain  have  carried  matters  to  open  warfare,  and  have  settled 
tlieir  pretensions  to  the  lady,  according  to  the  mcde  of  those 
most  concise  and  sim[)le  reaaoners,  the  knights-errant  of  yore 
—  by  single  conib;it ;  but  Ichabod  was  too  conscious  of  the  su- 
perior might  of  his  adversary  to  entor  the  lists  against  him ; 
he  had  overheard  a  boast  of  Bones,  that  he  wouiii  "  double  the 
schoolmaster  up,  and  lay  him  on  a  shelf  of  his  own  scU'  ol-housi  ; " 
and  he  was  too  wary  to  give  him  an  oi)portunit3'.  There  was  sunn  - 
thing  extremely  provokingin  this  obstinately  pacific  system  ;  itkft 
Brom  no  alternative  but  to  draw  upon  the  funds  of  rustic  wag- 
gery in  his  disposition,  and  to  play  off  boorish  practical  jokes 
upon  his  rival.  Ichabod  became  the  object  of  whimsical  perse- 
cution to  Bones,  and  bin  gang  of  rough  riders.  Thoy  hurried 
his  hitherto  peaceful  domains  ;  smoked  out  his  singing-school, 
by  stopping  up  the  chimney  ;  broke  into  the  school-house  at 
night,  in  spite  of  his  formidable  fastening  of  withe  and  win- 
dow stakes,  and  turned  every  thing  topsy-turvy  ;  so  that  the 
poor  schoolmaster  began  to  think  all  the  witches  in  the  country 
held  their  meetings  there.  But  what  was  slill  more  annoying, 
Brom  took  all  opportunities  of  turning  him  into  ridicule  in  pres- 
ence of  his  mistress,  and  had  a  scoundrel  dog  whom  he  taught 
to  whine  in  the  most  ludicrous  manner,  and  introduced  as  a 
rival  of  Ichabod's,  to  instruct  her  in  psalmody. 

In  this  way,  matters  went  on  for  some  time,  without  pro- 
ducing any  material  effect  on  the  relative  situations  of  the  con- 
tanding  powers.  On  a  fine  autumnal  afternoon,  ichabod,  in 
pansive  mood,  sat  enthroned  on  the  lofty  stool  whence  he  usu- 
ally watched  all  the  coucerns  of  his  little  literary  ie;ilm.  In 
bis  hand  he  swayed  a  ferule,  that  sceptre  of  det-potic  power; 
the  birch  of  justice  reposed  on  three  nails,  behiuii  the  throne,  a 
constant  terror  to  evil  doers;  while  on  the  desk  befoie  him 
might  be  seen  sundry  contraband  articles  and  prohibited  weap- 
ons, detected  upon  the  persons  of  idle  urchins  ;  such  as  half- 
munched  apples,  popguns,  whirligigs,  fly-ca^es,  and  v,  hole 
legio  is  of  rampant  little  paper  game-cocks.  Apparently  there 
had  been  some  appalling  act  of  justice  recently  inflicted,  for 
his  scholars  were  all  busily  intent  upon  their  books,  or  slyly 
whispering  behind  them  with  one  eye  kept  upon  the  master  ;  and 
a  kind  of  buzzing  stillness  reigned  throughout  the  school -I'ooni. 
It  was  sr.ildenly  interrupted  by  the  appearance  of  a  negro  in 
tow-cloth  iacket  and  trowsers,  a  round-crowned  fragment  of 
a  hat,  like  i\ic.  cap  of  Mercury,  and  mounted  on  the  back  of  a 
ragged,  wild,  Lilf-broken  coU,  whic^i  he  managed  with  a  ropo 


that 


some  ' 
down 
than  i 
Icha 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  BOLLOW, 


271 


by  way  of  halter.  He  came  clattering  up  to  the  school-door 
with  an  invitation  to  Ichabod  to  attend  a  merry-making,  oi 
"quilting  frolic,"  to  be  held  that  evening  at  Mynheer  Van  Tas- 
sel's ;  and  having  delivered  his  measnge  witi^  that  air  of  impor- 
tance, and  effort  at  fine  language,  which  a  negro  is  apt  to 
display  on  petty  embassies  of  the  kind,  he  dashed  over  the 
brook,  and  was  seen  scampering  away  up  the  liollow,  full  of 
the  importance  and  hurry  of  his  mission. 

Ail  was  now  bustle  and  hubbub  in  the  late  quiet  school-room. 
The  scholars  were  humed  through  their  lessons,  without  stop- 
ping at  trifles ;  those  who  were  nimble,  skipped  over  half  with 
impunity,  and  those  who  were  tardy,  had  a  smart  application 
now  and  then  in  the  rear,  to  quicken  their  speed,  or  help  them 
over  a  tall  word.  Books  were  flung  aside,  without  being  put 
away  on  the  shelves ;  inkstands  were  o\erturned,  benches 
thrown  down,  and  the  whole  school  was  turned  loose  an  hour 
before  the  usual  time ;  bursting  forth  like  a  legion  of  young 
imps,  yelping  and  racketing  about  the  green,  in  joy  at  their 
early  emancipation. 

The  gallant  Ichabod  now  spent  at  least  an  extra  half-hour  at 
h:s  toilet,  brushing  and  furbishing  up  his  best,  and  indeed  only 
suit  of  rusty  black,  and  arranging  his  locks  by  a  bit  of  broken 
looking-glass,  that  hung  up  in  the  school-house.  That  he 
might  make  his  appearance  before  his  mistress  in  the  true 
style  of  a  cavalier,  he  borrowed  a  horse  from  the  farmer  with 
whom  he  was  domiciliated,  a  choleric  old  Dutchman,  of  the 
name  of  Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  thus  gallantly  mounted,  issued 
forth  like  a  knight-errant  in  quest  of  adventures.  But  it  is 
meet  I  should,  in  the  true  spirit  of  romantic  story,  give  some 
account  of  the  looks  and  equipments  of  m}'  hero  and  his  steed. 

The  animal  he  bestrode  was  a  broken-down  plough-horse, 
that  had  outlived  almost  every  thing  but  his  viciousness.  He 
was  gaunt  and  shagged,  with  a  ewe  neck  and  a  head  like  a 
hammer;  his  rusty  mane  and  tail  were  tangled  and  knotted 
with  burrs ;  one  eye  had  lost  its  pupil,  and  was  glaring  and 
spectral,  but  the  other  had  the  gleam  of  a  genuine  devil  in  it. 
Still  he  must  have  had  fire  and  mettle  in  his  day,  if  we  may 
judge  from  his  name,  which  was  Gunpowder.  He  had,  in  fact, 
been  a  favorite  steed  of  his  master's,  the  choleric  Van  Ripper, 
who  was  a  ^urious  rider,  and  had  infused,  very  probably, 
some  of  his  own  spirit  into  the  animal ;  for,  old  and  broken- 
down  as  he  looked,  there  was  more  of  the  lurking  devil  in  him 
than  in  an}'  young  filly  in  the  country. 

Ichabod  was  a  suitable  figure  for  such  a  steed.    He  rode  with 


-  r"T  T  wii  r    ■■  ■  ■ 


ii.»i  m  \immimi»m 


272 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


short  stirrups,  which  brought  his  knees  nearly  up  to  the  pom- 
mel  of  the  saddle ;  his  sharp  elbows  stuck  out  like  grasshop- 
pers' ;  he  carried  his  whip  perpendicularly  in  his  hand,  like  a 
sceptre,  and  as  his  horse  jogged  on,  the  motion  of  his  arms 
was  not  unlike  the  flapping  of  a  pair  of  wings.  A  small  wool 
hat  rested  on  the  top  of  his  nose,  for  so  his  scanty  strip  of 
forehead  might  be  called,  and  the  skirts  of  his  black  coat  flut- 
tered out  almost  to  the  horse's  tail.  Such  was  the  appearance 
of  Ichabod  and  his  steed  as  they  shambled  out  of  the  gate  of 
Hans  Van  Ripper,  and  it  was  altogether  such  an  apparition  as 
is  seldom  to  be  met  with  in  broad  daylight. 

It  was,  as  I  have  said,  a  fine  autumnal  day ;  the  sky  was 
clear  and  serene,  and  nature  wore  that  rich  and  golden  livery 
which  we  always  associate  with  the  idea  of  abundance.  The 
forests  had  put  on  their  sober  brown  and  yellow,  while  some 
trees  of  the  tenderer  kind  had  been  nipped  by  the  frosts  into 
brilliant  dyes  of  orange,  purple,  and  scarlet.  Streaming  files 
of  wild  ducks  began  to  make  theii  appearance  high  in  the  air ; 
the  bark  of  the  squirrel  might  be  heard  from  the  groves  of 
beech  and  hickory-nuts,  and  the  pensive  whistle  of  the  (^uail 
at  intervals  from  the  neighboring  stubble  field. 

The  small  birds  were  taking  tlieir  farewell  banquets.  Tn  the 
fulness  of  their  revelry,  they  fluttered,  chirping  and  frolicking, 
from  bush  to  bush,  and  tree  to  tiee,  capricious  from  the  very 
profusion  and  variety  around  them.  There  was  the  honest  cock- 
robin,  the  favorite  game  of  stripling  sportsmen,  with  its  loud 
querulous  note,  and  the  twittering  blackbirds  flying  in  sable 
clouds ;  and  the  golden  winged  woodpecker,  with  his  crimson 
crest,  his  broad  black  gorget,  and  splendid  plumage ;  and  the 
cedar-bird,  with  its  red-tipt  wings  and  yellow-tipt  tail,  and  its 
little  monteiro  cap  of  feathers ;  and  the  blue  jay,  that  noisy 
coxcomb,  in  his  gay  light  blue  coat  and  white  undcirciothes, 
screaming  and  chattering,  nodding,  and  bo])bing,  and  bowiug, 
and  pretending  to  be  on  good  terms  with  every  songster  of  tht 
grove. 

As  Ichabod  jogged  slowly  on  his  way,  his  eye,  ever  open  to 
every  symptom  of  culinary  abundance,  ranged  with  delight 
over  the  treasures  of  jolly  autumn.  On  all  sides  he  beheld 
vast  store  of  apples,  some  hanging  in  oppressive  opulence  on 
the  trees ;  some  gathered  into  baskets  and  barrels  for  the 
market ;  others  heaped  up  in  rich  piles  for  the  cider-press. 
Fartner  on  he  beheld  great  fields  of  Indian  corn,  with  its 
golden  ears  peeping  from  their  leafy  coverts,  and  holding  out 
the   promise   of    cakes    and   hasty-pudding ;    and    the  yellow 


«*  -*^  r.  jik-ri 


le  pom. 
:asshop- 
l,  like  a 
lis  arms 
lall  wool 
strip  of 
oat  flut- 
learauce 
gate  of 
ritiou  as 


sky  was 
in  livery 
!c.  The 
ilc  some 
3sts  into 
ling  files 
the  air; 
roves  of 
.be  cjuail 

In  the 

olicking, 

tlie  very 

est  coek- 

its  loud 

in  sable 

criiusou 

and  the 

,  and  its 

lat   noisy 

ireiothes, 

bowing, 

er  of  thft 

■  open  to 
1  delight 
le  beheld 
ilencc  on 
1  for  the 
Icr-press. 
with  its 
Idlng  out 
le  yellow 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 


273 


pumpkins  lying  beneath  them,  turning  up  their  fair  round 
bellies  to  the  sun,  and  giving  ample  prospects  of  the  most 
luxurious  of  pies ;  and  anon  he  passed  the  fragrant  buckwheat 
fields,  breathing  the  odor  of  the  bee-hive,  and  as  he  beheld 
them,  soft  anticipations  stole  over  his  mind  of  dainty  slap- 
jacks, well  buttered,  and  garnished  with  honey  or  treacle,  by 
the  delicate  little  dimi)led  hand  of  Katrina  Van  Tassel. 

Thus  feeding  his  mind  with  many  sweet  thoughts  and 
"sugared  sui)positions,"  he  journeyed  along  the  sides  of  a 
iiuigo  of  hills  whicli  look  out  upon  some  of  the  goodliest 
scones  of  the  mighty  Hudson.  The  sun  gradually  wheeled 
his  broad  disk  down  into  the  west.  The  wide  bosom  of  the 
Tappan  Zee  lay  motionless  and  glassy,  excepting  that  here 
Rud  there  a  gentle  undulation  waved  and  prolonged  the  blue 
shadow  of  the  distant  mountain.  A  few  amber  clouds  floated 
in  tlie  sky,  without  a  breath  of  air  to  move  them.  The  horizon 
was  of  a  Ihie  golden  tint,  changing  gradually  into  a  pure  apple 
green,  and  from  that  into  the  deep  blue  of  tlie  mid-heaven.  A 
slanting  ray  lingered  on  the  woody  crests  of  the  precipices  that 
overhuug  some  parts  of  the  river,  giving  greater  depth  to  the 
dark  gray  and  purple  of  their  rocky  sides.  A  sloop  was 
loitering  in  the  distance,  dropping  slowly  down  with  the  tide, 
her  sail  hanging  uselessly  against  the  mast ;  and  as  the  reflec- 
tion of  the  sky  gleamed  .ilong  the  still  water,  it  seemed  as  if 
the  vessel  was  suspended  in  the  air.  < 

It  was  towaid  eveniug  tliat  Ichabod  arrived  at  the  castle  of 
the  Ileer  Van  Tassel,  wliich  he  found  thronged  with  the  pride 
and  flower  of  the  adjacent  country.  Old  farmers,  a  spare 
loMthcni-faf'od  raqp,  in  homespun  coats  and  breeches,  blue 
stDckiiigs,  huge  shoes,  and  magnificent  pewter  buckles.  Their 
brisk,  withered  little  dames,  in  close  crimped  caps,  long- 
wfiistcd  short  gowns,  homespun  petticoats,  with  scissors  and 
pill-cushions,  and  gay  calico  pockets  hanging  on  the  outside. 
Buxom  lasses,  almost  as  antiquated  as  their  mothers,  except- 
ing where  a  straw  hat,  a  fine  ribbon,  or  perhaps  a  white  frock, 
gave  symptoms  of  city  innovation.  The  sons,  in  short  square- 
skirted  coats,  with  rows  of  stupendous  brass  buttons,  and  their 
hair  generally  queued  in  the  fashion  of  the  times,  especially 
if  they  could  procure  an  eelskiu  for  the  purpose,  it  being 
esteemed  throughout  the  country,  as  a  potent  nourisher  and 
strengthener  of  the  hair. 

Brom  Bones,  however,  was  the  hero  of  the  scene,  having 
come  to  the  gathering  on  his  favorite  steed  Daredevil,  a 
creature,  like  himself,  full  of  mettle  and  mischief,  and  which 


J 


I 


274 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


no  one  but  hiniself  could  manage.  He  was,  in  fact,  noted  fo? 
preferring  vicious  animals,  given  to  aU  kinds  of  tricks  which 
kept  the  rider  in  constant  risk  of  his  neck,  for  he  held  a  tract- 
able well-broken  iiorse  as  unworthy  of  a  lad  of  spirit. 

Fain  would  I  pause  to  dwell  upon  the  world  of  charms  that 
burst  upon  tiie  enraptured  gaze  of  my  hero,  as  he  entered  the 
state  parlor  of  Van  Tassel's  mansion.  Not  those  of  the  bevy 
of  buxom  lassos,  witli  their  luxurious  display  of  red  and  white  ; 
but  the  ample  elianns  of  a  genuine  Dutch  countrj'  tea-table,  in 
the  sumptuous  time  of  autunni.  Such  heaped-up  platters  of 
cakes  of  various  and  almost  indescribable  kinds,  known  only 
to  experienced  Dutdi  housewives !  There  was  the  doughty 
dough-nut,  the  tenderer  oly-koek,  and  the  crisp  and  crumbling 
cruller ;  sweet  cakes  and  short  cakes,  ginger  cakes  and  honey 
cakes,  and  tlie  whole  family  of  cakes.  And  then  there  were 
apple  pies,  and  peach  i)ies,  and  pumpkin  pies ;  besides  slices 
of  ham  and  smoked  beef  •  and  moreover  delectable  dishes  of 
preserved  plums,  and  peaches,  and  pears,  and  quinces ;  not  to 
mention  broil(!d  shad  and  roasted  chickens  ;  together  with  bowls 
of  milk  and  cream,  all  mingled  higgledy-piggledy,  pretty  much 
as  1  have  enumerated  them,  with  the  motherly  tea-pot  sending 
up  its  clouds  of  vapor  from  the  midst  —  Heaven  bless  the 
mark  !  I  want  breath  and  time  to  discuss  this  banquet  as  it 
deserves,  and  am  too  eager  to  get  on  with  my  story.  Happily, 
Ichabod  Crane  was  not  in  so  great  a  hurry  as  his  historian,  but 
did  ample  justice  to  ever^'  dainty. 

He  was  a  kind  and  thankfid  creature,  whose  heart  dilated 
in  propoition  as  his  skin  was  filled  with  good  cheer,  and  whose 
spirits  rose  with  eating,  ass  some  men's  do  with  drink.  He 
could  not  help,  too,  rolling  his  large  eyes  round  him  as  he  ate, 
and  chuckling  with  the  possibility  that  he  might  one  day  he 
lord  of  all  this  scene  of  almost  unimaginable  luxury  and  siileii- 
dor.  Then,  he  thought,  how  soon  he'd  turn  his  back  upon  tiie 
old  school-house  ;  snap  his  fingers  in  the  face  of  Hans  Van 
Ripper,  and  every  other  niggardly  patron,  and  kick  any  itin- 
erant pedagogue  out  of  doors  that  should  dare  to  call  him 
comrade ! 

Old  Baltus  Van  Tassel  moved  about  among  his  guests  with  a 
face  dilated  with  content  and  good-humor,  round  and  jolly  as 
the  harvest  moon.  His  hospitable  attentions  were  brief,  but 
expressive,  being  confined  to  a  shake  of  the  hand,  a  slap  on 
the  shoulder,  a  loud  laugh,  and  a  pressing  invitation  to  "  fall 
to,  and  help  themselves." 

And  now  the  sound  of  the  music  from  the  common  room,  or 


■<»«««WfH 


THE  LEGEND   OF  SLEEPY  UOLLOW. 


275 


hall,  summoned  to  the  dance  T.  a  musician  was  an  old  gray 
headed  negro,  ^ho  had  been  the  itinerant  orchestra  of  the 
neighborhood  for  more  than  half  a  century.  Ills  instrument 
was  as  old  and  battered  as  himself.  The  greater  part  of  tlw 
time  he  scraped  on  two  or  three  strings,  accompanying  every 
movement  of  the  bow  with  a  motion  of  the  head ;  bowing  almost 
to  the  ground,  and  stamping  with  Lis  foot  whenever  a  fresh 
eoupU  were  to  start. 

Ichabod  prided  himself  upon  his  dancing  as  much  as  upon 
his  vocal  powers.  Not  a  limb,  not  a  fibre  aljout  him  was  idle  ; 
and  to  have  seen  his  loosely  hung  frame  in  full  motion,  and 
clattering  al)out  the  room,  you  would  have  thought  St.  Vitus 
himself,  that  blessed  pation  of  the  dance,  was  figuring  before 
you  ill  person.  He  was  the  admiration  of  all  the  negroes  ;  who, 
having  gathered,  of  all  ages  and  sizes,  from  the  farm  and  the 
neighl)orhood,  stood  forming  a  pyramid  of  shining  black  faces 
at  every  door  and  window ;  gazing  with  delight  at  the  scene ; 
rolling  their  white  eye-balls,  and  showing  grinning  rows  of 
ivory  from  ear  to  ear.  How  could  the  flogger  of  urchins  be 
otherwise  than  animated  and  joyous?  the  lady  of  his  heart 
was  his  partner  in  the  dance,  and  smiling  graciously  in  reply 
lo  all  his  amorous  oglings  ;  while  Brom  Bones,  sorely  smitten 
with  love  and  jealousy,  sat  brooding  by  himself  in  one  corner, 

"When  the  dance  was  at  an  end,  Ichabod  was  attracted  to  a 
knot  of  the  sager  folks,  who,  with  Old  Van  Tassel,  sat  smoking 
at  one  end  of  the  piazza,  gossiping  over  former  times,  and 
drawling  out  long  stoiies  about  the  war. 

This  neighboriiood,  at  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking,  was 
one  of  those  highly  favored  places  which  abound  with  chroni- 
cle and  great  men.  The  British  and  American  line  had  run 
near  it  during  the  war ;  it  had,  therefore,  been  the  scene  of 
marauding,  and  infested  with  refugees,  cow-boys,  and  all  kinds 
of  border  chivalry.  Just  sufficient  time  had  elapsed  to  enable 
each  story-teller  to  dress  up  his  taie  with  a  little  becoming  fiC" 
tion,  and,  in  the  indistinctness  of  his  recollection,  to  make  him« 
self  the  hero  of  every  exploit. 

There  was  the  story  of  Doffue  Martling,  a  large  blue-bearded 
Dutchman,  who  had  neaiiy  taken  a  British  frigate  with  an  old 
iron  nine-pounder  from  a  mud  breastwork,  only  that  his  gun 
hurst  at  the  sixth  discharge.  And  there  was  an  old  gentleman 
who  shall  be  nameless,  being  too  rich  a  mynheer  to  be  lightly 
mentioned,  who,  in  the  battle  of  Whiteplains,  being  an  excel, 
lent  master  of  defence,  parried  a  musket-ball  with  a  small* 
tword,  insomuch  that  he  absolutely  felt  it  whiz  round  the  I  Indei 


.  :  i  »;—>»-<•«>««»'• '^ 


•liK/.-''" 


276 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


and  glance  off  at  the  hilt ;  in  proof  of  which  he  was  ready  at 
any  time  to  show  the  sword,  with  the  hilt  a  little  bent.  There 
were  several  more  that  had  been  equally  great  in  the  field,  not 
one  of  whom  but  was  persuaded  that  he  had  a  considerable 
hand  in  bringing  the  war  to  a  happy  termination. 

But  all  these  were  nothing  to  the  tales  of  ghosts  and  appari- 
tions that  succeeded.  The  neighborhood  is  rich  in  legentlary 
troasiiros  of  the  kind.  Local  tales  and  superstitions  thrive 
best  in  these  slieltered,  long-settled  retreats ;  but  are  trampled 
undi'r  foot,  by  Lhe  shifting  throng  that  forms  the  population 
of  most  of  our  country  places.  Besides,  there  is  no  encourage- 
ment for  ghosts  in  most  of  our  villages,  for  they  have  scarcely 
had  time  to  finish  their  first  nap,  and  turn  themselves  in  their 
graves,  before  their  surviving  friends  have  travelled  away  from 
the  neighl)orhood  :  so  that  when  they  turn  out  at  night  to  walk 
their  rounds,  tliey  have  no  acquaintance  left  to  call  upon.  This 
is  perhaps  the  reason  why  we  so  seldom  hear  of  ghosts  except 
in  our  long-established  Dutch  communities. 

The  immediate  cause,  however,  of  the  prevalence  of  super- 
natural stories  in  these  parts,  was  doubtless  owing  to  the 
vicinity  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  There  was  a  contagion  in  the  very 
air  that  blew  from  that  haunted  region ;  it  breathed  forth  an 
atmosphere  of  dreams  and  fancies  infecting  all  the  land.  Sev- 
eral of  the  Sleepy  Hollow  people  were  present  at  Van  Tassel's, 
and,  as  usual,  were  doling  out  their  wild  and  wonderful  legends. 
Many  dismal  tales  were  told  about  funeral  trains,  and  mourn- 
ing cries  and  wailings  heard  and  seen  about  the  great  tree 
where  the  unfortunate  Major  Andr(5  was  taken,  and  which 
stood  in  the  neighborhood.  Some  mention  was  made  also  of 
the  woman  in  white,  that  haunted  the  dark  glen  at  Raven  Rock, 
and  was  often  heard  to  shriek  on  winter  nights  before  a  storm, 
having  perished  there  in  the  snow.  Tlie  chief  part  of  the 
stories,  however,  turned  upon  the  favorite  spectre  of  Sleepy 
iloUow,  the  lieadless  horsenan,  who  had  been  heard  several 
Mines  of  late,  patrolling  the  country;  and  it  was  said,  tethered 
ills  horse  nightly  among  the  graves  in  the  church ;/ard. 

The  sequestered  situation  of  this  church  seitras  always  to 
have  made  it  a  favorite  haunt  of  troubled  spir  ts.  It  stands 
on  a  knoll,  surrounded  by  locust-trees  and  loUy  elms,  from 
among  wiiich  its  decent,  whitewashed  walls  shine  modestly 
forth,  like  Christian  purity,  beaming  through  the  shades  of 
retirement.  A  gentle  slope  descends  from  it  to  a  silver  sheet 
of  water,  bordered  by  high  trees,  between  which,  peeps  may 
be  caught  at  the  blue  hills  of  the  Hudson.     To  look   upon   ita 


:;<rjc^»r:ti-aara.. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEP T  HOLLO  W. 


f77 


grass-grown  yard,  where  the  sunbeams  seem  to  K'.^ep  so  quietly, 
one  would  think  that  there  at  least  the  dead  might  rest  in 
peace.  On  one  side  of  the  church  extends  a  wide  woody  dell, 
along  which  raves  a  large  brook  among  broken  rocks  and 
trunks  of  fallen  trees.  Oy^x  a  deep  black  part  of  the  stream, 
not  far  from  the  church,  was  formerly  thrown  a  wooden  bridge  ; 
the  road  that  led  to  it,  and  the  bridge  itself,  were  thickly 
shaded  by  overhanging  trees,  which  cast  a  gloom  about  it: 
even  in  the  daytime ;  but  occasioned  a  fearful  darkness  at 
night.  This  was  one  of  the  favointe  haunts  of  the  headless 
horseman,  and  the  place  where  he  was  most  frequently  encoun- 
tered. The  tale  was  told  of  old  Hrouwer,  a  most  heretical 
disbeliever  in  ghosts,  how  he  met  the  horseman  returning  from 
his  foray  into  Sleepy  Hollow,  and  was  obliged  to  get  up  behind 
him ;  how  they  galloped  over  bush  and  brake,  over  hill  and 
swamp,  until  they  reached  the  bridge ;  when  the  horseman 
suddenly  turned  into  a  skeleton,  threw  old  Brouwer  into  the 
brook,  and  sprang  away  over  the  tree-tops  with  a  clap  ol 
thunder. 

This  story  was  immediately  matched  by  a  thrice  marvellous 
adventure  of  Brom  Bones,  who  made  light  of  the  galloping 
Hessian  as  an  arrant  jockey.  He  aflirnied,  that  on  returning 
one  night  from  the  neighboring  village  of  Sing-Sing,  he  had 
been  overtaken  by  this  midnight  trooper ;  that  he  had  offered  to 
race  with  him  for  a  bowl  of  punch,  and  should  have  won  it 
too,  for  Daredevil  ))eat  the  goblin  iiorsc  all  hollow,  but  just  as 
they  came  to  the  church  bridge,  the  Hessian  bolted,  and  van- 
ished in  a  flash  of  fire. 

All  these  tales,  told  in  that  drowsy  undertone  with  which 
men  talk  in  the  dark,  the  countenances  of  the  listeners  only 
now  and  then  receiving  a  casual  gleam  from  the  glare  of  a 
pipe,  sank  deep  in  the  mind  of  Ichabod.  He  repaid  them  in 
kind  with  large  extracts  from  his  invaluable  author.  Cotton 
Mather,  and  added  many  marvellous  events  that  had  taken 
place  in  his  native  State  of  Connecticut,  and  fearful  sights 
which  he  had  seen  in  his  nightly  walks  about  Sleepy  Hollow. 

The  revel  now  gradually  broke  up.  The  old  farmers  gathered 
together  their  famil  js  in  their  wagons,  and  were  heard  for 
some  time  rattling  along  the  hollow  roads,  and  over  the  distant 
hills.  Some  of  the  damsels  mounted  on  pillions  behind  their 
favorite  swains,  and  their  light-hearted  laughter,  mingling  with 
the  clatter  of  hoofs,  echoed  along  the  silent  woodlands,  sound- 
ing fainter  and  fainter,  until  they  gradually  died  awav  —  and 
the  late  scene  of  noise  sldI  frolic  was  all  silent  and  desertect 


278 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


I 


Ichabod  only  lingered  behind,  according  to  the  custom  of  coun' 
try  lovers,  to  have  a  tete-k-tete  with  the  heiress;  fully  con- 
vinced that  he  was  now  en  the  high  road  io  success.  What 
passed  at  this  interview  I  will  not  pretend  to  say,  for  in  fact  I 
do  not  know.  Something,  liowever,  1  fear  me,  must  liave  gone 
wrong,  for  he  certainly  sallied  forth,  after  no  very  great  inter- 
val, with  an  air  quite  desolate  and  chopfuUen  —  Oh,  these 
women  !  these  women  !  Coiikl  that  giii  have  been  playing  off 
any  of  her  coquettish  tricks?  —  Was  her  encouragement  of  the 
poor  pedagogue  all  a  mere  sham  to  secure  lier  conquest  of  his 
rival?  —  Heaven  only  knows,  not  I!  —  let  it  suffice  to  say, 
Ichabod  stole  forth  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  been  sacking  a 
hen-roost,  rather  than  a  fair  lady's  heart.  Without  looking  to 
the  right  or  left  to  notice  the  scene  of  rural  wealth,  on  which  he 
had  so  often  gloated,  he  went  straight  to  the  stable,  and  with 
several  hearty  cuffs  and  kicks,  roused  his  steed  most  uucour- 
teously  from  the  comfortable  quarters  in  which  he  was  soundly 
sleeping,  dreaming  of  mountains  of  corn  and  oats,  and  wbole 
valleys  of  timothy  and  clover. 

It  was  the  very  witching  time  of  night  that  Ichabod,  heavy- 
hearted  and  crest-fallen,  pursued  his  travel  homewards,  along 
the  sides  of  the  lofty  hills  which  rise  above  Tarry  Town,  and 
which  he  had  traversed  so  cheerily  in  the  afternoon.  The  hour 
W3S  as  dismal  as  himself.  Far  below  him  the  Tappan  Zee 
spread  its  dusky  and  iiidistinct  waste  of  waters,  with  here  antl 
there  the  tall  mast  of  a  sloop,  riding  quietly  at  anchor  under 
the  laud.  In  the  dead  hush  of  midnight,  he  could  even  hear  the 
barking  of  the  watch-dog  from  the  opposite  shore  of  the  Hud- 
son ;  but  it  was  so  vague  and  faint  as  only  to  give  an  idea  of 
his  distance  from  this  faithful  companion  of  man.  Now  and 
then,  too,  the  long-drawn  crowing  of  a  cock,  accidentally 
awakened,  would  sound  far,  far  off,  from  some  farm-house, 
away  among  the  hills  —  but  it  was  like  a  dreaming  sound  in  his 
ear.  No  signs  of  life  occurred  near  him,  but  occasionally  the 
melancholy  chirp  of  a  cricket,  or  perhaps  the  guttural  twang  of 
a  bull-frog  from  a  neighboring  marsh,  as  if  sleeping  uncomfort- 
ably, and  turning  suddenly  in  his  bed. 

All  the  stories  of  ghosts  and  goblins  that  he  had  heard  in  the 
afternoon,  now  came  crowding  upon  his  recollection.  The 
night  grew  darker  and  darker ;  the  stars  seemed  to  sink  deeper 
in  the  sky,  and  driving  clouds  occasionally  hid  them  from 
his  sight.  He  had  never  felt  so  lonely  and  dismal.  He  was, 
moreover,  approaching  the  very  place  where  njany  of  the 
(scenes  of  the  ghost  stones  bad  been  laid.     In  the  centre  of  the 


mg 


.  ^«>^  AWIBCS  V.Y-.*,L*;.l«tXHW  VUl,  VHtMi  > 


.  >J«'.^:i»£'jLA*tf^*».ALii.*-.Lk.-.---jr'*.tf  frr***^-***' 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 


279 


road  stood  an  enormous  tulip-tree,  which  towered  like  a  giant 
above  all  the  other  trees  of  the  neighborhood,  and  formed  a 
kind  of  landmark.  Its  limbs  were  gnarled  and  fantastic,  large 
enough  to  form  trunks  for  ordinary  trees,  twisting  down  almost 
to  the  earth,  and  rising  again  into  the  air=  It  was  connected 
with  the  tragical  story  of  the  unfortunate  Aiidr6,  who  had  been 
taken  prisoner  hard  by ;  and  was  universally  known  by  the 
name  of  Major  Andre's  tree.  The  common  people  regarded 
it  witli  a  mixture  of  respect  and  superstition,  partly  out  of 
sympathy  for  the  fate  of  its  ill-starred  namesake,  and  partly 
from  the  tales  of  strange  sights,  and  doleful  lamentations,  told 
concernin'5  it. 

As  Ichabod  approached  this  fearful  tree,  he  began  to  whistle  ; 
he  thought  his  whistle  was  answered  :  it  was  but  a  blast  sweep- 
ing sharply  through  the  dry  branches.  As  he  approached  a 
little  nearer,  he  thought  he  saw  something  white,  hanging  in 
the  midst  of  the  tree ;  he  paused,  and  ceased  whistling ;  but 
on  looking  more  narrowly,  perceived  that  it  was  a  place  where 
the  tree  had  been  scathed  by  lightning,  and  the  white  wood 
laid  bare.  Suddenly  he  heard  a  groan  —  his  teeth  chattered, 
and  his  knees  smote  against  the  saddle  :  it  was  but  the  rubbing 
of  one  hug'*  bough  upon  another,  as  they  were  swayed  about 
by  the  breeze.  He  passed  the  tree  in  safety,  but  new  perils 
lay  before  him. 

About  two  hundred  yards  from  the  tree,  a  small  brook 
crossed  the  road,  and  ran  into  a  marshy  and  thickly- wooded 
glen,  known  by  the  name  of  Wiley's  Swamp.  A  few  rough 
logs,  laid  side  by  side,  served  for  a  bridge  over  this  stream. 
On  that  side  of  the  road  where  the  brook  entered  the  wood,  a 
group  of  oaks  and  chestnuts,  matted  thick  with  wild  grape- 
vines, threw  a  cavernous  gloom  over  it.  To  pass  this  bridge, 
was  the  severest  trial.  It  was  at  this  identical  spot  that  the 
unfortunate  Andr6  was  captured,  and  under  the  covert  of 
those  chestnuts  and  vines  were  the  sturdy  yeomen  concealed 
who  surprised  him.  This  has  ever  since  been  considered  a 
haunted  stream,  and  fearful  are  the  feelings  of  a  schoolboy 
who  has  to  ^jass  it  alone  after  dark. 

As  he  approached  the  stream,  his  heart  began  to  thump ;  he 
summoned  up,  however,  all  his  resolution,  gave  his  horse  half 
a  score  of  kicks  in  the  .lbs  and  attempted  to  dash  briskly 
across  the  bridge  ;  but  instead  of  starting  forward,  the  perverse 
old  animal  made  a  lateral  movement  and  ran  broadside  against 
tlie  fence.  Ichabod,  whose  fears  increased  with  the  delay, 
Jerked   the   reins  on    the  other  side,  and   kicked   lustily  with 


■  n , 


r 


280 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


h 


the  contrary  foot :  it  was  all  in  vain ;  his  steed  started,  it  is 
'rue,  but  it  was  only  to  plunge  to  the  opposite  side  of  the  road 
into  a  thicket  of  brambles  and  alder-bushes.  The  school- 
master now  bestowed  both  whip  and  heel  upon  the  rt.irveling 
ribs  of  old  Gunpowder,  who  dashed  forwards,  snuffling  and 
snorting,  but  came  to  a  stand  just  by  the  bridge,  with  t.  sud- 
denness that  had  nearly  sent  his  rider  spipwling  over  his  Lead. 
Just  at  this  moment  a  plashy  tramp  by  the  side  of  the  bridge 
caught  the  sensitive  ear  of  Ichabod.  In  the  dark  shadow  of 
the  grove,  on  the  margin  of  the  brook,  he  beheld  something 
huge,  misshapen,  black  and  towering.  It  stirred  not,  but 
seemed  gathered  up  in  the  gloom,  like  some  gigantic  monster 
ready  to  spring  upon  the  traveller. 

Tlie  hair  of  the  affrighted  pedagogue  rose  upon  his  head  with 
terror.  What  was  to  be  done  ?  To  turn  and  fly  was  now  too 
late ;  and  besides,  what  chance  was  there  of  escaping  ghost  or 
goblin,  if  such  it  was,  which  could  ride  upon  the  wings  of 
the  wind?    Summoning  up,  therefore,  a  show  of  courage,  he 


demanded  in  stammering  accents  —  "Who  are  you?"  Ho 
received  no  reply.  He  repeated  his  demand  in  a  still  more 
agitated  voice.  Still  there  was  no  answer.  Once  more  he 
cudgelled  the  sides  of  the  inflexible  Gunpowder,  and  shutting 
his  eyes,  broke  forth  with  involuntary  fervor  into  a  psalm  tune. 
Just  then  the  shadowy  object  of  alarm  put  itself  in  motion, 
and  with  a  scramble  and  a  bound,  stood  at  once  in  the  middle 
of  the  road.  Though  the  night  was  dark  and  dismal,  yet  the 
form  of  the  unknown  might  uow  in  some  degree  be  ascertained. 
He  appeared  to  be  a  horseman  of  large  dimensions,  and 
mounted  on  a  black  horse  of  powerful  frame.  He  made  no 
offer  of  molestation  or  sociability,  but  kept  aloof  on  one  side  of 
the  road,  jogging  along  on  the  blind  side  of  old  Gunpowder, 
who  had  now  got  over  his  fright  and  waywardness. 

Ichabod,  who  had  no  relish  for  this  strange  midnight  com 
panion,  and  bethought  himself  of  the  adventure  of  Broin  Hones 
with  the  galloping  Hessian,  now  quickened  his  steed,  in  hopes 
of  leaving  him  behind.  The  stranger,  however,  quickened  his 
horse  to  an  equal  pace.  Ichabod  pulled  up,  and  fell  ii;to  n 
walk,  thinking  to  lag  behind  —  the  other  did  the  same.  His 
heart  began  to  sink  within  him ;  he  endeavored  to  resume  his 
psalm  tune,  but  his  parched  tongue  clove  to  the  roof  of  liis 
mouth,  and  he  could  not  utter  a  stave.  There  was  soinetliing 
in  the  moody  and  dogged  silence  of  this  pertinacious  com  pun- 
ion,  that  was  mysterious  and  appalling.  It  was  soon  fearfully 
acCv^unted  for.     On  mounting  a  risiug  ^luuud,  which  broughl 


;*iar:'ifei«r>ir>  ' 


THE  LEOWND  OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 


JJ81 


the  figure  of  his  fellow-traveller  in  relief  against  the  sky, 
gigantic  in  height,  and  muffled  in  a  cloak,  Ichabod  was  horror- 
struck,  on  perceiving  that  he  was  headless !  but  his  horror  was 
still  more  increased,  on  observing  that  the  head,  which  should 
have  rested  on  his  shoulders,  was  carried  before  him  on  the 
pommel  of  his  saddle !  His  terror  rose  to  desperation ;  ha 
rained  a  showeif  of  kicks  and  blows  upon  Gunpowder,  hoping, 
by  a  sudden  movement,  to  give  his  companion  the  slip  —  but 
the  spectre  started  full  jump  with  him.  Away,  then,  they 
dashed  through  thick  and  thin  ;  stones  flying  and  sparks  flash- 
ing at  every  bound.  Ichabod's  flimsy  garments  fluttered  in  the 
air,  as  he  stretched  his  long  lank  body  away  over  his  horse's 
head,  in  the  eagerness  of  his  flight. 

They  had  now  reached  the  road  which  turns  off  to  Sleepy 
Hollow  ;  but  Gunpowder,  who  seemed  possessed  with  a  demon, 
instead  of  keeping  up  it,  made  an  opposite  turn,  and  plunged 
headlong  down  hill  to  the  left.  This  road  leads  through  a 
sandy  hollow,  shaded  by  trees  for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile, 
where  it  crosses  the  bridge  famous  in  goblin  story ;  and  just 
beyond  swells  the  green  knoll  on  which  stands  the  white- 
washed church. 

As  yet  the  panic  of  the  steed  had  given  his  unskilful  rider 
an  apparent  advantage  in  the  chase ;  but  just  as  he  had  got 
half-way  through  the  hollow,  the  girths  of  the  saddle  gave 
way,  and  he  felt  it  slipping  from  under  him.  He  seized  it  by 
the  poinmjel,  and  endeavored  to  hold  it  firm,  bu*^^  in  vniri ;  and 
had  just  time  to  save  himself  by  clasping  old  Gunpowder 
round  the  neck,  when  the  saddle  fell  to  the  earth,  and  he  heard 
it  trampled  under  foot  by  his  pursuer.  For  a  moment  the 
terror  of  Hans  Van  Ripper's  wrath  passed  across  his  mind  —  for 
it  was  his  Sunday  sadr^e ;  but  this  was  no  time  for  petty 
fears  :  the  goblin  was  hard  on  his  haunches  ;  and  (unskilful  rider 
bliat  he  was  !)  he  had  much  ado  to  maintain  his  seat ;  sometimes 
slipping  on  one  side,  sometimes  on  another,  and  sometimes 
jolted  on  the  high  ridge  of  his  horse's  back-bone,  with  a  vio- 
lence that  lie  verily  feared  would  cleave  him  asunder. 

An  opening  in  tlie  trees  now  cheered  him  with  the  hopes  that 
the  church  bridge  was  at  hand.  The  wavering  reflection  of  a 
silver  star  in  the  bosom  of  the  brook  told  him  that  he  was  not 
mistaken.  He  saw  the  walls  of  the  church  dimly  glaring 
under  the  trees  beyond.  He  recollected  the  place  where  Brom 
Bones'  ghostly  competitor  had  disappeared.  "  If  I  can  but  reach 
that  bridge,"  thought  Ichalwd.  "I  am  safe."  Just  then  he 
heard  the  black  steed  panting  aud  blowing  close  behind  him ; 


£32 


THE    SKETCH-BOOK. 


lit 


he  even  fancied  that  he  felt  his  hot  breath.  Another  convui- 
Bive  kick  in  the  ribs,  and  old  Gunpowder  sprang  upon  the 
bridge ;  he  thundered  over  the  resounding  planks ;  he  gained 
the  opposite  side,  and  now  Ichaboc  cast  a  look  behind  to 
see  if  his  pursuer  should  vanish,  according  to  rule,  in  a  flash 
of  fire  and  brimstone.  Just  then  he  saw  the  goblin  rising  in 
his  stirrups,  and  in  the  very  act  of  hurling  his  head  at  him. 
Ichabod  endeavored  to  dodge  the  horrible  missile,  but  too 
late.  It  encountered  his  cranium  with  a  tremendous  crash 
—  he  was  tumbled  headlong  into  the  dust,  and  Gunpowder, 
the  black  steed,  and  the  goblin  rider,  passed  by  like  a  whirl- 
wind. 

The  next  morning  the  old  horse  was  found  without  his 
saddle,  and  with  the  bridle  under  his  feet,  soberly  cropping  the 
grass  at  his  master's  gate.  Ichabod  did  noi  make  his  appear- 
ance at  breakfast  —  dinner-hour  came,  but  no  Ichabod.  Tlie 
boys  assembled  at  the  school-house,  and  strolled  idly  about  the 
banks  of  the  brook ;  but  no  schoolmaster.  Hans  Van  Ripper 
now  began  to  feel  some  uneasiness  about  the  fate  of  poor  Icha- 
bod, and  his  saddle.  An  inquiry  was  set  on  foot,  and  after 
diligent  investigation  they  cane  upon  his  traces.  In  one  part 
of  the  road  leading  to  the  church,  was  found  the  saddle 
trampled  in  the  dirt ;  the  tracks  of  horses'  hoofs  deeply  dented 
in  the  road,  and  evidently  at  furious  speed,  were  traced  to  the 
bridge,  beyond  which,  on  the  bank  of  a  broad  part  of  the 
brook,  where  the  water  ran  deep  and  black,  was  found  the  hat 
of  the  unfortunate  Ichabod,  and  close  beside  it  a  shattered 
pumpkin. 

The  brook  was  searched,  but  the  body  of  the  schoolmaster 
was  not  to  be  discovered.  Hans  Van  Ripper,  as  executor  of 
his  estate,  examined  the  bundle  which  contained  all  his  worldly 
effects.  They  consisted  of  two  shirts  and  a  half ;  two  stocks 
for  the  neck :  a  pair  or  two  of  worsted  stockings  ;  an  old  pair 
of  corduroy  smallclothes;  a  rusty  razor;  a  book  of  psalm 
tunes  full  of  dog's  ears ;  and  a  broken  pitch-pipe.  As  to  tiie 
books  and  furniture  of  the  school-house,  they  belonged  to  the 
community,  excepting  Cotton  Mather's  History  of  Witchcraft, 
a  New-England  Almanac,  and  a  book  of  dreams  and  fortune- 
telling  ;  in  which  last  was  a  sheet  of  foolscap  much  scribbled 
and  blotted,  in  several  fruitless  attempts  to  make  a  copy  of 
verses  in  honor  of  the  heiress  of  Van  Tassel.  These  magic 
books  au'l  the  poetic  scrawl  vyero  forthwith  consigned  to  the 
flames  b}'  Hans  Van  Ripper;  who,  from  that  time  forward, 
determined  to  send  his  children  no  more  to  school ;  observing 


THE  LEGEND   OF  SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 


283 


that  he  never  knew  any  good  come  of  this  same  reading  and 
writing.  Whatever  money  the  sclioolmaster  possessed,  and 
he  had  received  his  quarter's  pay  but  a  day  or  two  before,  he 
must  have  had  about  his  person  at  the  time  of  his  disappear- 
ance. 

The  mysterious  event  caused  much  speculation  at  the  church 
on  the  following  Sunday.  Knots  of  gazers  and  gossips  were 
collected  in  the  churchyard,  at  the  bridge,  and  at  the  spot 
where  the  hat  and  pumpkin  had  been  found.  The  stories  of 
Brouwer,  of  Bones,  and  a  whole  budget  of  others,  were  called 
to  mind,  and  when  they  had  diligently  considered  them  all,  and 
compared  them  with  the  symptoms  of  the  present  case,  they 
shook  their  heads,  and  came  to  the  conclusion,  that  Ichabod 
had  been  carried  off  by  the  galloping  Hessian.  As  he  was  a 
bachelor,  and  in  nobody's  debt,  nobody  troubled  his  head 
any  more  about  him ;  the  school  was  removed  to  a  different 
quarter  of  the  HoUow,  and  another  pedagogue  reigned  in  his 
stead. 

It  is  true,  an  old  farmer  who  had  been  down  to  New- York 
on  a  visit  several  years  after,  and  from  whom  this  account  of 
the  ghostly  adventure  was  received,  brought  home  the  intelli- 
gence that  Ichabod  Crane  was  still  alive ;  that  he  had  left  the 
neighborhood  partly  through  fear  of  the  goblin  and  Hans  Van 
Ripper,  and  partly  in  mortification  at  having  been  suddenly 
dismissed  by  the  heiress ;  that  he  had  changed  his  quarters  to 
a  distant  part  of  the  country ;  had  kept  school  and  studied  law 
at  the  same  time  ;  had  been  admitted  to  the  bar ;  turned  politi- 
cian; electioneered;  written  for  the  newspapers;  and  finally, 
had  been  made  a  Justice  of  the  Ten  Pound  Court.  Brom 
Bones,  too,  who,  shortly  after  his  rival's  disappearance,  con- 
ducted the  blooming  Katrina  in  triumph  to  the  altar,  was 
observed  to  look  exceedingly  knowing  whenever  the  story  of 
Ichabod  was  related,  and  always  burst  into  a  hearty  laugh  at 
the  mention  of  the  pumpkin ;  which  led  some  to  suspect  that 
he  knew  more  about  the  matter  than  he  chose  to  tell. 

The  old  country  wives,  however,  who  are  the  best  judges  of 
these  matters,  maintain  to  this  day,  that  Ichabod  was  spirited 
away  by  supernatural  means ;  and  it  is  a  favorite  story  often 
told  about  the  neighborhood  round  the  winter  evening  fire. 
The  bridge  became  more  than  ever  an  object  of  superstitious 
awe  ;  and  that  may  be  the  reason  why  the  road  has  been  altered 
of  late  years,  so  as  to  approach  the  church  by  the  border  of 
the  mill-pond.  The  school-house,  being  deserted,  soon  fell  to 
decay,  aud  was  reported  to  be  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  the 


284 


THE    SKETCH-BOOK. 


unfortunate  pedagogue ;  and  the  plough-boy,  loitering  home- 
ward of  a  still  summer  evening,  has  often  fancied  his  voice  at 
a  distance,  chanting  a  melancholy  psalm  tune  among  the  tran- 
quil solitudes  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 


POSTSCRIPT, 


FOUND    IN   THE    IIANDWRITING   OF    MR.    KNICKERBOCKKn. 

The  preceding  Tale  is  given,  almost  in  tho  precise  words  in 
which  I  heard  it  related  at  a  Corporation  meeting  of  the  an- 
cient city  of  Manhattoes,'  at  which  were  present  many  of  its 
sagest  and  most  illustrious  burghers.  The  narrator  was  a 
pleasant,  shabby,  gentlemanly  old  fellow  in  pepper-and-salt 
clothes,  with  a  sadly  humorous  face ;  and  one  whom  I  strongly 
suspected  of  being  poor  —  he  made  such  efforts  to  be  entertam- 
ing.  When  his  story  was  concluded  there  was  much  laughter 
and  approbation,  particularly  from  two  or  three  deputy  alder- 
men, who  had  been  asleep  the  greater  part  of  the  time.  There 
was,  however,  one  tall,  dry-looking  old  gentleman,  with  beetling 
eyebrows,  who  maintained  a  grave  and  rather  severe  face 
throughout ;  now  and  then  folding  his  arms,  inclining  his  head, 
and  looking  down  upon  the  floor,  as  if  turning  a  doubt  over  in 
his  mind.  He  was  one  of  your  wary  men,  who  never  laugh  but 
upon  good  grounds  —  v?heu  they  have  reason  and  the  law  on 
their  side.  When  the  mirth  of  the  rest  of  the  company  had 
subsided,  and  silence  was  restored,  he  leaned  one  arm  on  the 
elbow  of  his  chair,  and  sticking  the  other  a-kimbo,  demanded, 
witli  a  slight  but  exceedingly  sage  motion  of  the  head,  and 
contraction  of  the  brow,  what  was  the  moral  of  the  story, 
and  what  it  went  to  prove. 

The  story-teller,  who  was  just  putting  a  glass  of  wine  to  his 
lips,  as  a  refreshment  after  his  toils,  paused  for  a  moment, 
looked  at  his  inquirer  with  an  air  of  infinite  deference,  and 
lowering  the  glass  slowly  to  the  table,  observed  that  the  story 
was  intended  most  logically  to  prove  :  — 

"■  That  there  is  no  situation  in  life  but  has  its  advantages 
and  jil'jasures  —  provided  we  will   but  take  a  joke  as  we  find  it : 

"  That,  therefore,  he  that  runs  races  with  goblin  troopers,  is 
likely  to  have  rough  riding  of  it : 

"  Ergo,  for  a  country  schoolmaster  to  be  refused  the  hand  of 

>  New- York. 


I 


V  ENVOY. 


285 


a  Dutch  heiress,  is  a  certain  step  to  high  preferment  in  the 
state." 

The  cautious  old  gentleman  knit  his  brows  tenfold  closer  after 
this  explanation,  being  sorely  puzzled  by  the  ratiocination  of 
the  syllogism  ;  while,  methought,  the  one  in  pepper-and-salt 
eyed  him  with  something  of  a  triumphant  leer.  At  length  he 
observed,  that  all  this  was  very  well,  but  still  he  thought  the 
story  a  little  on  the  extravagant  —  there  were  one  or  two  points 
on  which  he  had  his  doubts : 

"  Faith,  sir,"  replied  the  story-teller,  "  as  to  that  matter,  I 
don't  believe  one-half  of  it  myself." 


Hi 


L' ENVOY.' 

Oo,  little  booke,  God  send  thcc  good  passage, 
Aud  specially  lut  Ibis  be  thy  prayeru, 
Unto  them  all  that  thee  will  read  or  hear, 
Where  thou  art  wrong,  after  their  help  to  call, 
Thee  to  correct,  in  any  part  or  all. 

—  CiiAucKB'8  Belle  Dame  aana  Mercle. 

In  concluding  a  second  volume  of  the  Sketch-Book,  the 
Author  cannot  but  express  his  deep  sense  of  the  indulgence 
with  which  his  first  has  been  received,  and  of  the  liberal  dis- 
position that  has  been  evinced  to  treat  him  with  kindness  as  a 
stranger.  Even  the  critics,  whatever  ma}'  be  said  of  them  by 
others,  he  has  found  to  be  a  singularly  gentle  and  good-natured 
race ;  it  is  true  that  each  has  in  turn  objected  to  some  one  or 
two  articles,  and  tliat  these  individual  exceptions,  taken  in  the 
aggregate,  would  amount  almost  to  a  total  condemnation  of 
liis  work ;  but  then  he  has  been  consoled  by  observing,  that 
what  one  has  particularly  censured,  another  has  as  particu- 
larly praised  :  and  thus,  the  encomiums  being  set  off  against 
tlie  objections,  he  finds  his  work,  upon  the  whole,  commended 
far  beyond  its  deserts. 

He  is  aware  that  he  runs  a  risk  of  forfeiting  much  of  this 
kind  favor  by  not  following  the  counsel  that  has  been  liberally 
bestowed  upon  him  ;  for  where  abundance  of  valuable  advice 
is  given  gratis,  it  may  seem  a  man's  own  fault  if  he  should  go 
astray.  He  can  only  say,  in  his  vindication,  tliat  he  faithfully 
determined,  for  a  time,  to  govern  himself  in  his  second  volume 

>  Closing  the  second  volume  of  the  London  edition. 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


•S 


{>y  ' '  :  opinions  passed  upon  his  first ;  but  he  was  soon  brought 
to  a  81' V  1  by  the  contrariety  of  excellent  counsel.  One  kindly 
advised  u,  u  to  avoid  the  ludicrous ;  another,  to  shun  tlie 
pathetic ;  a  third  assured  him  that  he  was  tolerable  at  descrip- 
tion, but  cautioned  him  to  leave  narrative  alone  ;  while  a  fourth 
declared  that  he  had  a  very  pretty  knack  at  turning  a  story, 
and  was  really  euteitaining  when  in  a  pensive  mood,  but  was 
g,rievously  mistaken  if  he  imagined  himself  to  possess  a  spuit 
of  humor. 

Thus  1  erplexed  by  the  advice  of  his  friends,  who  each  in  turn 
closed  so-ne  particular  path,  but  left  him  all  the  world  beside 
to  range  in,  he  found  that  to  follow  all  their  counsels  would,  iu 
fact,  be  to  stand  still.  He  remained  for  a  time  sadly  embar- 
rassed ;  when,  all  at  once,  the  thought  struck  him  to  ramble  on 
as  he  had  begun  ;  that  his  work  being  miscellaneous,  and  writ- 
ten for  different  humors,  it  could  not  be  expected  that  any  one 
would  be  pleased  with  the  whole  ;  but  that  if  it  should  contain 
something  to  suit  each  reader,  his  end  would  be  completely 
answered.  Few  guests  sit  down  to  a  varied  table  with  an 
equal  appetite  for  every  dish.  One  has  an  elegant  horror  of  a 
roasted  pig ;  another  holds  a  curry  or  a  devil  iu  utter  abomina- 
tion ;  a  third  cannot  tolerate  the  ancient  flavor  of  venison  and 
wild  fowl ;  and  a  fourth,  of  truly  masculine  stomach,  looks 
with  sovereign  contempt  on  those  knickknacks,  here  and  there 
dished  up  for  the  ladies.  Thus  each  article  is  condemned  in 
its  turn ;  and  yet,  amidst  this  variety  of  appetites,  seldom  does 
a  dish  go  away  from  the  table  without  being  tasted  and  relished 
by  some  one  or  other  of  the  guests. 

With  these  considerations  he  ventures  to  serve  up  this  second 
volume  in  the  same  heterogeneous  way  witli  his  first ;  simply 
requesting  the  reader,  if  he  should  find  here  and  there  some- 
thing to  please  him,  to  rest  assured  that  it  was  written  expressly 
for  intelligent  readers  like  himself,  but  entreating  him,  should 
he  find  any  thing  to  dislike,  to  tolerate  it,  as  one  of  those 
articles  which  the  Author  has  been  obliged  to  write  for  readers 
of  a  less  refined  taste. 

To  be  serious.  —  The  Author  is  conscious  of  the  numerous 
faults  and  imperfections  of  his  work  ;  and  well  aware  iiow  little 
he  iti  disciplined  and  accomplished  in  the  arts  of  authorship. 
His  deficiencies  are  also  increased  by  a  diflidence  arising  from 
his  peculiar  situation.  He  finds  himself  writing  in  a  strange 
land,  and  appearing  before  a  public  wliifli  he  has  been  accus- 
tomed, from  childhood,  to  regard  with  the  highest  feelings  of 
awe  and  reverence.     He  is  full  of  solicitude  to  deserve  their 


r  ENVOY. 


287 


approbation,  yet  finds  that  very  solicitude  continually  embar- 
rassing his  powers,  and  depriving  him  of  that  ease  and  confl- 
denec  whicli  are  necessary  to  successful  exertion.  Still  the 
kindness  witli  which  he  is  treated  encourage"  him  to  go  on, 
boping  that  in  time  he  may  acquire  a  stea  r  "  oting  ;  and 
thus  he  proceeds,  half-venturing,  half-shrirkiiig  urprised  at 
his  cvr'(  y;'x)(l  t'ortuue,  aud  wouderiug  at  hie  ^ix  i  ■  erity. 


A  SUNDAY   IN  LOIs  .CK.> 


In  a  preceding  paper  I  have  spoken  of  an  English  Sunday  in 
the  country  and  its  tranquillizing  effect  upon  the  landscape ; 
but  where  is  its  sacred  influence  more  strikingly  apparent 
than  in  the  very  heart  of  that  great  Babel,  London  ?  On  this 
sacred  day  the  gigantic  monster  is  charmed  into  repose.  The 
intolerable  din  and  struggle  of  the  week  are  at  an  end. 
The  shops  are  shut.  The  fires  of  forges  and  manufactories 
are  extinguished,  and  the  sun,  no  longer  obscured  by  murky 
clouds  of  smoke,  pours  down  a  sober  yellow  radiance  into  the 
quiet  streets.  The  few  pedestrians  we  meet,  instead  of  hurry- 
ing forward  with  anxious  countenances,  move  leisurely  along ; 
their  brows  are  smoothed  from  the  wrinkles  of  business  and 
care ;  they  have  put  on  their  Sunday  looks  and  Sunday  man- 
ners with  their  Sunday  clothes,  and  are  cleansed  in  mind  as 
well  as  in  person. 

And  now  the  melodious  clangor  of  bells  from  church-towers 
summons  their  several  flocks  to  the  fold.  Forth  issues  from 
his  mansion  the  family  of  the  decent  tradesman,  the  small 
children  in  the  advance ;  then  the  citizen  and  his  comely 
spouse,  followed  by  the  grown-up  daughters,  with  small 
morocco-bound  prayer-books  laid  in  the  folds  of  their  pocket- 
handkerchiefs.  The  house-maid  looks  after  them  from  the 
window,  admiring  the  finery  of  the  family,  and  receiving, 
perhaps,  a  nod  and  smile  from  her  young  mistresses,  at  whose 
toilet  she  has  assisted. 

Now  rumbles  along  the  carriage  of  some  magnate  of  the 
city,  peradventure  an  alderman  or  a  sheriff,  and  now  the  patter 
of  many  feet  announces  a  procession  of  charity  scholars  in 
uniforms  of  antique  cut,  and  each  with  a  prayer-book  under 
his  arm. 

>  i'ort  of  u,  dketcU  oonitted  lu  ttie  preceding  editioiu. 


!^' 


'If. 

4 


li 


288 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


The  ringing  of  bells  is  at  an  end ;  the  rumbling  of  carriages 
has  ceased;  the  pattering  of  feet  is  heard  no  more;  the  flocks 
are  folded  in  ancient  churches,  cramped  up  in  by-lanes  and 
corners  of  the  crowded  city,  where  the  vigilant  beadle  keeps 
watch,  like  the  shepherd's  dog,  round  the  threshold  of  the 
sanctuary.  For  a  time  everything  is  hushed,  but  soon  is  heard 
the  deep,  pervading  sound  of  the  organ,  rolling  and  vibrating 
through  the  empty  lanes  and  courts,  and  the  sweet  chanting  of 
the  choir,  making  them  resound  with  melody  and  praise. 
Never  have  I  been  more  sensible  of  the  sanctifying  effect  of 
church  music  than  when  I  have  heard  it  thus  poured  forth, 
like  a  river  of  joy,  through  the  inmost  recesses  of  this  great 
metropolis,  elevating  it,  as  it  were,  from  all  the  sordid  pollutions 
of  the  week,  and  bearing  the  poor  world-worn  soul  on  a  tide 
of  triumphant  harmony  to  heaven. 

The  morning  service  is  at  an  end.  The  streets  are  again 
alive  with  the  congregations  returning  to  their  homes,  but 
soon  again  relapse  into  silence.  Now  comes  on  the  Sunday 
dinner,  which  to  the  city  tradesman  is  a  meal  of  some  impor- 
tance. There  is  more  leisure  for  social  enjoyment  at  the 
board.  Members  of  the  family  can  now  gather  together  who 
are  separated  by  the  laborious  occupations  of  the  week.  A 
schoolboy  may  be  permitted  on  that  day  to  come  to  the 
paternal  home ;  an  old  friend  of  the  family  takes  his  accus- 
tomed Sunday  seat  at  the  board,  tells  over  his  well-known 
stories,  and  rejoices  young  and  old  with  his  well-known  jokes. 

On  Sunday  afternoon  the  city  pours  forth  its  legions  to 
breathe  the  fresh  air  and  enjoy  the  sunshine  of  the  parks  and 
rural  environs.  Satirists  may  say  what  they  please  about  the 
rural  enjoyments  of  a  London  citizen  on  Sunday,  but  to  me 
there  is  something  delightful  in  beholding  the  poor  prisoner 
of  the  crowded  and  dusty  city  enabled  thus  to  come  fortli 
once  a  week  and  throw  himself  upon  the  green  bosom  of 
Nature.  He  is  like  a  child  restored  to  the  mother's  breast, 
and  they  who  first  spread  out  these  noble  parks  and  magnifi- 
cent pleasure-grounds  which  surround  this  huge  metropolis 
have  done  at  least  as  much  for  its  health  and  morality  as  if 
they  had  expended  the  amount  of  cost  in  hospitals,  prisons, 
and  penitentiaries. 


; 


■ 


LONDON  ANTIQUES. 


283 


LONDON  ANTIQUES. 


I  do  walk 


Methinks  like  Ouido  Vaux,  with  my  dark  lantliorn, 
Stealing  to  set  the  town  o'  fire;  i'  tii'  country 
I  should  be  taken  for  William  o'  the  Wisp, 
Or  Kobin  Goodtellow. 

Fletcher. 

I  AM  somewhat  of  an  antiquity-hunter,  and  am  fond  of  ex 
ploring  London  in  quest  of  the  relics  of  old  times.  These 
arc  principally  to  be  found  in  the  depths  of  the  city,  swal- 
lowed up  and  almost  lost  in  a  wilderness  of  brick  and  mortar, 
but  deriving  poetical  and  romantic  interest  from  the  common- 
place, prosaic  world  around  them.  I  was  struck  with  an  in- 
stance of  the  kind  in  the  course  of  a  recent  summer  ramble 
into  the  city  ;  for  the  city  is  only  to  be  explored  to  advantage 
in  summer-time,  when  free  from  the  smoke  and  fog  and  min 
and  mud  of  winter.  I  had  been  buffeting  for  some  time 
against  the  current  of  population  setting  through  Fleet  Street. 
Tlie  warm  weather  had  unstrung  my  nerves  and  made  me 
sensitive  to  every  jar  and  jostle  and  discordant  sound.  The 
flesh  was  weary,  the  spirit  faint,  and  I  was  getting  out  of 
humor  with  the  bustling  busy  throng  through  which  I  had  to 
struggle,  when  in  a  fit  of  des})eration  I  tore  my  way  through 
the  crowd,  plunged  into  a  by-lane,  and,  after  passing  through 
several  obscure  nooks  and  angles,  emerged  into  a  quaint  and 
quiet  court  with  a  grassplot  in  the  centre  overhung  by  elms, 
and  kept  perpetually  fresh  and  green  by  a  fountain  with  its 
sparkling  jet  of  water.  A  student  with  book  in  hand  was 
seated  on  a  stone  bench,  partly  reading,  partly  meditating  on 
the  movements  of  two  or  three  trim  nursery-maids  with  their 
infant  charges. 

I  was  like  an  Arab  who  had  suddenly  come  upon  an  oasis 
amid  the  panting  sterility  of  the  desert.  By  degrees  the 
quiet  and  coolness  of  the  place  soothed  my  nerves  and  re- 
freshed my  spirit.  I  pursued  my  walk,  and  came,  hard  by,  to 
a  very  ancient  chapel  with  a  low-browed  Saxon  portal  of 
massive  and  rich  architecture.  The  interior  was  circular  and 
lofty  and  lighted  from  above.  Around  were  monumental 
tombs  of  ancient  date  on  which  were  extended  the  marble 
effigies  of  warriors  in  armor.  Some  had  the  hands  devoutly 
crossed  upon  the  breast ;  others  grasped  the  pommel  of  the 
Bword,  menacing  hostility  even  in  the  tomb,  while  the  crossed 


;  ( 


290 


THE  SKETCn-liOOK. 


legs  of  sever..!  indicated  soldiers  of  the  Faith  who  had  been 
on  crusades  to  the  Holy  Land. 

I  was,  in  fact,  in  the  chapel  of  the  Knights  Templars, 
strangely  situated  in  the  very  centre  of  sordid  traffic ;  and  I 
do  not  know  a  more  impressive  lesson  for  the  man  of  the 
world  than  thus  suddenly  to  turn  aside  from  the  highway  ot 
busy  money-seeking  life,  and  sit  down  among  these  shadowy 
sepulchres,  where  all  is  twilight,  dust,  and  forgetfulness. 

In  a  subsequent  tour  of  observation  I  encountored  anothei- 
of  these  relics  of  a  "foregone  world  "  locked  up  in  the  lieart 
of  the  city.  I  had  been  wandering  for  some  time  through 
dull  monotonous  streets,  destitute  of  anything  to  strike  the 
eye  or  excite  the  imagination,  when  I  beheld  before  me  a 
Gothic  gateway  of  mouldering  antiquity.  It  opened  into  a 
spacious  quadrangle  forming  the  courtyard  of  a  stately  Gothic 
pile,  the  portal  of  which  stood  invitingly  open. 

It  was  apparently  a  public  edifice,  and,  as  I  was  antiquity- 
hunting,  I  ventured  in,  though  with  dubious  steps.  Meeting 
no  one  either  to  oppose  or  rebuke  my  intrusion,  I  continued 
on  until  I  found  myself  in  a  great  hall  with  a  lofty  arched 
roof  and  oaken  gallery,  all  of  Gothic  architecture.  At  one 
end  of  the  hall  was  an  enormous  fireplace,  with  wooden  settles 
on  each  side;  at  the  other  end  was  a  raised  platform,  or  dais, 
the  seat  of  state,  above  which  was  the  portrait  of  a  man  in 
antique  garb  with  a  long  robe,  a  ruff,  aud  a  venerable  gray 
beard. 

The  whole  establishment  had  an  air  of  monastic  quiet  and 
seclusion,  and  what  gave  it  a  mysterious  charm  was,  that  I 
had  not  met  with  a  human  being  since  I  had  passed  the 
threshold. 

Encouraged  by  this  loneliness,  I  seated  myself  in  a  recess 
of  a  large  bow  window,  which  admitted  a  broad  flood  of  yel- 
low sunshine,  checkered  here  and  there  by  tints  from  panes 
of  colored  glass,  while  an  open  casement  let  in  the  soft  sum- 
mer air.  Here,  leaning  my  head  on  my  hand  and  my  arm  on 
an  old  oaken  table,  I  indulged  in  a  sort  of  reverie  about  what 
might  have  been  the  ancient  uses  of  this  edifice.  It  had  evi- 
dently  been  of  monastic  origin ;  perhaps  one  of  those  colle- 
giate establishments  built  of  yore  for  the  promotion  of 
learning,  where  the  patient  monk,  in  the  ample  solitude  of  the 
cloister,  added  page  to  page  and  volume  to  volume,  emulating 
in  the  productions  of  his  brain  the  magnitude  of  the  pile  he 
inhabited. 

As  I  was  seated  in  this  musing  mood  a  small  panelled  ck^o? 


LONDON  ANTIQUES. 


291 


In  an  arch  at  the  upper  end  of  the  hall  was  opened,  and  a 
number  of  gray-h^^ded  old  men,  clad  in  long  black  cloaks, 
came  forth  one  by  one,  proceeding  in  that  manner  through  the 
hall,  without  uttering  a  word,  each  turning  a  pale  face  on  me 
as  ho  passed,  and  disappearing  through  a  door  at  the  lower 
end. 

I  was  singularly  struck  with  their  appearance ;  their  black 
cloaks  and  antiquated  air  comported  with  the  style  of  this 
most  venerable  and  mysterious  pile.  It  was  as  if  the  ghosts 
of  the  departed  years,  about  which  I  had  been  musing,  were 
passing  in  review  before  me.  Pleasing  myself  with  such 
fancies,  I  set  out,  in  the  spirit  of  romance,  to  explore  what  I 
pictured  to  myself  a  realm  of  shadows  existing  in  the  very 
centre  of  substantial  realities. 

My  ramble  led  me  through  a  labyrinth  of  interior  courts 
and  corridors  and  dilapidated  cloisters,  for  the  main  edifice 
had  many  additions  and  dependencies,  built  at  various  times 
and  in  various  styles.  In  one  open  space  a  number  of  boys, 
who  evidently  belonged  to  the  establishment,  were  at  their 
sports,  but  everywhere  I  observed  those  mysterious  old  gray 
men  in  black  mantles,  sometimes  sauntering  alone,  sometimes 
conversing  in  groups;  they  appeared  to  be  the  pervading 
genii  of  the  place.  I  now  called  to  mind  what  I  had  read  of 
certain  colleges  in  old  times,  where  judicial  astrology,  geo- 
mancy,  necromancy,  and  other  forbidden  and  magical  sciences 
were  taught.  Was  this  an  establishment  of  the  kind,  and 
vere  these  black-cloaked  old  men  really  professors  of  the 
>i.  ack  art  ? 

These  surmises  were  passing  through  my  mind  as  my  eye 
glanced  into  a  chamber  hung  round  with  all  kinds  of  strange 
and  uncouth  objects  —  implements  of  savage  warfare,  strange 
idols,  and  stuffed  alligators ;  bottled  serpents  and  monsters 
decorated  the  mantelpiece ;  while  on  the  high  tester  of  au  oid- 
fashioned  bedstead  grinned  a  human  skull,  flanked  on  each 
side  by  a  dried  cat. 

I  approached  to  regard  more  narrowly  this  myst\c  chamber, 
which  seemed  a  fitting  laboratory  for  a  necromancer,  when  I 
was  startled  at  beholding  a  human  countenance  staring  at  me 
from  a  dusky  corner.  It  was  that  of  a  small,  shrivelled  old 
man  with  thin  cheeks,  bright  eyes,  and  gray,  wiry,  projecting 
eyebrows.  I  at  first  doubted  whether  it  were  not  a  mummy 
curiously  preserved,  but  it  moved,  and  1  saw  that  it  was  alive. 
It  was  another  of  these  black-cloaked  old  men,  and,  as  I  re- 
garded his  quaint  physiognomy,  his  obsolete  garb,  and  the 


II 


'!.:> 


'f 


292 


TEE  SKETCH-BOOK. 


1    I 


hideous  and  sinister  objects  by  which  he  was  surrounded,  I 
began  to  persuade  myself  that  I  had  come  upon  the  arch-mago 
who  ruled  over  this  magical  fraternity. 

Seeing  me  pausirg  before  the  door,  he  rose  and  invited  me  to 
enter.  I  obeyed  with  singular  hardihood,  for  how  did  I  know 
whether  a  wave  of  his  wand  might  not  metamorphose  me  into 
some  strange  monster,  or  conjure  me  into  one  of  the  bottles 
on  his  mantelpiece  ?  He  proved,  however,  to  be  anything  but 
a  conjurer,  and  his  simple  garrulity  soon  dispelled  all  the 
magic"  and  mystery  with  which  I  had  enveloped  this  anti- 
quated pile  and  its  no  less  antiquated  inhabitants. 

It  appeared  that  I  had  made  my  way  into  the  centre  of  an 
ancient  asylum  for  superannuated  tradesmen  and  decayed 
householders,  with  which  was  connected  a  school  for  a  limited 
number  of  boys.  It  was  founded  upwards  of  two  centuries 
since  on  an  old  monastic  establishment,  and  retained  somewJiat 
of  the  conventual  air  and  character.  The  shadowy  line  of  old 
men  in  black  mantles  who  had  passed  before  me  in  the  hall, 
and  whom  I  had  eleva^  'd  into  magi,  turned  out  to  be  the  pen- 
sioners returning  from  morning  service  in  the  chapel. 

John  Hallum,  the  little  collector  of  curiosities  whom  I  had 
made  the  arch-magician,  had  been  for  six  years  a  resident  of 
the  place,  and  had  decorated  this  final  nestling-place  of  his  old 
age  with  relics  and  rarities  picked  up  in  the  course  of  his  life. 
According  to  his  own  account,  he  had  been  somewhat  of  a 
traveller,  having  been  once  in  France,  and  very  near  making  a 
visit  to  Holland.  He  regretted  not  having  visited  the  latter 
country,  "  as  then  he  might  have  said  he  had  been  there." 
He  was  evidently  a  traveller  of  the  simple  kind. 

He  was  aristocratical  too  in  his  notions,  keeping  aloof,  as  I 
found  from  the  ordinary  run  of  pensioners.  His  chief  asso(!iatos 
were  a  blind  man  who  spoke  Latin  and  Greek,  of  both  whieli 
languages  Hallum  was  profoundly  ignorant,  and  a  broken- 
down  gentleman  who  had  run  through  a  fortune  of  forty  thou- 
sand pounds  left  him  by  his  father,  and  ten  thousand  pounds, 
the  marriage  portion  of  his  wife.  Little  Hallum  seemed  to 
consider  it  an  indubitable  sign  of  gentle  blood  as  well  as  of 
lofty  spirit  to  be  able  to  squander  such  enormous  sums. 

P.  S.  The  picturesque  remnant  of  old  times  into  which  I 
have  thus  beguiled  the  reader  is  what  is  called  the  Charter 
House,  originally  the  Chartreuse.  It  was  founded  in  101 1,  on 
the  remains  of  an  ancient  convent,  by  Sir  Thomas  Sutton,  boiiig 
oup  of  those  noble  charities  set  on  foot  by  individual  munili- 
eence,  and    kept   up  with    the    quaintuess    and   sanctity  of 


LONDON  ANTIQUES. 


293 


ancient  times  amidst  the  modern  changes  and  innovations  of 
London.  Here  eighty  broken-down  men,  who  have  seen  better 
days,  are  provided  in  their  old  age  with  food,  clothing,  fuel, 
and  a  yearly  allowance  for  private  expenses.  They  dine  to- 
gether, as  did  the  monks  of  old,  in  the  hall  which  had  been 
the  refectory  of  the  original  convent.  Attached  to  the  estab- 
lishment is  a  school  for  forty-four  boys. 

Stow,  whose  work  I  have  consulted  on  the  subject,  speaking 
of  the  obligations  of  the  gray -headed  pensioners,  says,  "They 
are  not  to  intermeddle  with  any  business  touching  the  affairs 
of  the  hospital,  but  to  attend  only  to  the  service  of  God,  and 
take  thankfully  what  is  provided  for  them,  without  muttering, 
murmuring,  or  grudging.  None  to  wear  weapon,  long  hair, 
colored  boots,  spurs,  or  colored  shoes,  feathers  in  their  hats, 
or  any  ruffian-like  or  unseemly  apparel,  but  such  as  becomes 
hospital-men  to  wear."  "And  in  truth,"  adds  Stow,  "happy 
are  they  that  are  so  taken  from  the  caros  and  sorrows  of  the 
world,  and  fixed  in  so  good  a  place  as  these  old  men  are ; 
having  nothing  to  care  for  but  the  good  of  their  souls,  to  serve 
God,  and  to  live  in  broth  irly  love." 


f 


» ■ 


For  the  amusement  of  such  as  have  been  interested  by  the 
preceding  sketch,  taken  down  from  my  own  observation,  and 
who  may  wish  to  know  a  little  more  about  the  mysteries  of 
London,  I  subjoin  a  modicum  of  local  history  put  into  my 
hands  by  an  odd-looking  old  gentleman,  in  a  small  brown  wig 
and  a  snuff-colored  coat,  with  whom  I  became  acquainted 
shortly  after  my  visit  to  the  Charter  House.  I  confess  I  was 
a  little  dubious  at  first  whether  it  was  not  one  of  those  apoc- 
ry])lial  tales  often  passed  off  upon  inquiring  travellers  like 
myself,  and  which  have  brought  our  general  character  for 
veracity  into  such  unmerited  reproach.  On  making  proper 
inquiries,  however,  I  have  received  the  most  satisfactory 
assurances  of  the  author's  probity,  and  indeed  have  been  told 
tliat  he  is  actually  engaged  in  a  full  and  particular  account  of 
the  very  interesting  region  in  which  he  resides,  of  which  the 
following  may  be  considered  merely  as  a  foretaste.  ^ 

>  Thli  refers  to  the  article  entitled  "  Little  Britain."    See  page  182. 


APPENDIX. 


NoTB  l.— POSTSCRIPT  TO  RIP   VAX  WINKLE. 


1:1 


».. 


The  following  are  travelling  notes  from  a  memorandum-book  of  M.. 
Knickerbocker. 

The  Kaatsberg,  or  Catskill  Mountains,  have  always  been  a  region  full 
of  fable.  The  Indians  considered  tlu-m  the  abode  of  spirits,  who  in- 
fluenced the  weather,  spreading  sunshine  ot  clouds  over  the  landscape 
and  sending  good  or  bad  hunting  seasons.  They  were  ruled  by  an  old 
squaw  spirit,  said  to  be  their  mother.  She  dwelt  on  the  highest  peak  of 
the  Catskills,  and  had  charge  of  the  doors  of  day  and  night  to  open  and 
shut  them  at  the  proper  hour.  She  hung  up  the  new  moons  in  the  skies, 
and  cut  up  the  old  ones  into  stars.  In  times  of  drought,  if  properly  pro- 
pitiated, she  would  spin  light  summer  cl.iuds  out  of  cobwebs  and  morning 
dew,  and  send  them  off  from  the  crest  of  the  mountain,  flake  after  flake, 
like  flak^^s  of  carded  cotton,  to  fluat  in  the  air ;  until,  dissolved  by  the 
heat  of  the  sun,  they  would  fall  in  gnntle  showers,  causing  the  grass  to 
spring,  the  fruits  to  ripen,  and  the  corn  to  grow  an  inch  an  hour.  If  dis- 
pleased, however,  she  would  brew  up  ck  .ds  black  as  ink,  sitting  in  the 
midst  of  them  like  a  bottle-bellied  spider  in  the  midst  of  its  web ;  and 
when  these  clouds  broke,  woe  betide  tlie  valleys ! 

In  old  times,  say  the  Indian  traditions,  there  was  a  kind  of  Manitou  or 
spirit,  who  kept  about  the  wildest  recesses  of  the  Cati"HiIl  Triouutains,  and 
took  a  mischievous  pleasure  in  wreaking  all  kinds  of  evils  and  vexations 
upon  the  red  men.  Sometimes  he  would  assume  the  form  of  a  bear,  a 
panther,  or  a  deer,  lead  the  bewildered  hunter  a  weary  chase  through 
tangled  forests  and  among  ragged  rocks,  and  then  Lpring  off  with  a  loud 
ho  I  ho  I  leaving  him  aghast  on  the  brink  of  a  beetling  precipice  or  raging 
torrent. 

The  favorite  abode  of  thia  Manitou  is  still  shown.  It  is  a  great  rock  or 
cliff  on  the  loneliest  part  of  the  mountains,  and,  from  the  flowering  vines 
which  clamber  about  it  and  the  wild  flowers  which  abound  in  its  neigh- 
borhood, is  known  by  the  name  of  the  Garden  Rock.  Near  the  foot  of 
it  is  a  fmall  lake,  the  haunt  of  the  solitary  bittern,  with  water-snakes 
basking  in  the  sun  on  the  leaves  of  the  pond-lilies,  which  lie  ou  the  sur- 
face. This  place  was  held  in  great  awe  by  the  Indians,  insomuch  that 
the  boldest  hunter  would  not  pursue  his  game  within  its  precincts.  Once 
upon  a  time,  however,  a  hunter  who  had  lost  his  way  penetrated  to  the 
Garden  liock,  where  be  beheld  a  number  of  gourds  placed  in  the  crutches 

294 


THE   SKETCH-BOOK, 


296 


of  trees.  One  of  these  he  seized  and  made  off  with  it,  but  in  the  hurry 
of  his  retreat  he  let  it  fall  among  the  rocks,  when  a  great  stream  gashed 
forth,  which  washed  him  away  and  swept  him  down  precipices,  where  he 
was  dashed  to  pieces,  an(^.  the  stream  made  its  way  to  the  Hudson,  and 
continues  to  flow  to  the  present  day,  being  the  identical  stream  known 
by  the  name  of  Kaaterskill. 


NoT«  2,  Page  81.  —  TffE   WIDOW  AND  HER  SON. 

In  the  revi'  edition  the  first  part  of  this  sketch  reads  as  follows : 
Those  who  are  in  the  habit  of  remarking  such  mattere  must  hare 
noticed  the  passive  quiet  of  an  English  landscape  on  Sunday.  The 
clacking  of  the  mill,  the  regularly  recurring  stroke  of  the  flail,  the  din 
of  the  blacksmith's  hammer,  the  whistling  of  the  ploughman,  the  rattling 
of  the  cart,  and  all  other  sounds  of  rural  labor  are  suspended.  The  very 
farmdogs  bark  less  frequently,  being  less  disturbed  by  passing  travellers. 
At  such  times  I  have  almost  fancied  the  winds  aunk  into  quiet,  and  that 
the  sunny  landscape,  with  its  fresh  green  tints  melting  into  blue  haze, 
enjoyed  the  hallowed  calm.    Well  was  it  ordained  that  the  day  of  devo- 

Bweet  day,  so  pure,  so  calm,  bo  bright. 
The  bridal  uf  the  earth  and  sky. 

tion  should  be  a  day  of  rest.  The  holy  repose  which  reigns  over  the  face 
of  Nature  has  its  moral  influence ;  every  restless  passion  is  charmed  down, 
and  we  feel  the  natural  religion  of  the  soul  gently  springing  up  within  us. 
VoT  my  part,  there  are  feelings  that  visit  me  in  a  country  church,  amid 
the  beautiful  serenity  of  Nature,  which  I  experience  nowhere  else;  and 
if  not  a  more  religious,  I  think  I  am  a  better,  man  on  Sunday  than  on  any 
other  day  of  tlie  seven. 

During  my  recent  residence  in  the  country  I  used  frequently  to  attend 
at  the  old  village  church,  its  shadowy  aisles,  its  mouldering  monuments, 
its  dark  oaken  panelling,  all  reverend  with  the  gloom  of  departed  years, 
seemed  to  fit  it  for  the  haunt  of  solemn  meditation ;  but,  being  in  a 
wealthy,  aristocratic  neighborhood,  the  glitter  of  fashion  penetrated  even 
into  the  sanctuary,  and  I  felt  myself  continually  thrown  back  upon  the 
world  by  the  frigidity  and  pomp  of  the  poor  worms  around  me.  The  only 
being  in  the  whole  congregation  who  appeared  thoroughly  to  feel  the 
humble  and  prostrate  piety  of  a  true  Christian  was  a  poor  decrepit  old 
woman  bending  under  the  weight  of  ye!) rs  and  infirmities.  She  bore  the 
traces  of  something  better  than  abject  poverty.  The  lingerings  of  decent 
pride  were  visible  in  her  appearance.  Her  dress,  though  humble  in  the 
extreme,  was  scrupulously  clean.  Some  trivial  respect,  tc  had  been 
awarded  hor,  for  she  did  not  take  her  seat  among  the  village  poor,  but  sat 
alone  on  the  stops  of  the  altar.  She  seemed  to  have  survived  all  love,  all 
friendship,  all  society,  and  to  have  nothing  left  her  but  the  hopes  of 
hiaven.  When  I  saw  her  feebly  rising  and  bending  her  aged  form  in 
prayer,  habitually  conning  her  prayer-book,  which  her  palsies  hand  and 
tailing  eyes  would  not  permit  her  to  read,  but  which  she  evidently  knew 
t>y  hoart,  1  lelt  persuaded  that  the  faltering  voice  of  that  poor  woman 
arose  to  heaven  far  before  the  responses  of  the  clerk,  the  sweiJ.  ot  U»a 
organ,  or  the  chanting  of  the  choir. 


II  r. 


296 


THE  SKETCE-BOOK. 


'V 


¥.m 


'Smti.  — NOTES  CONCERNING    WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  sixth  century,  when  Britain,  under  the  domin. 
ion  of  the  Saxons,  was  in  a  state  of  barbarism  and  idolatry,  I'ope  Gregory 
the  Great,  struck  witli  the  beauty  of  some  Anglo-Saxon  youths  exposed 
for  sale  in  the  market-place  at  Rome,  conceived  a  fancy  for  the  race,  and 
deteunined  to  send  missionaries  to  preach  the  goipel  among  these  comely 
but  benighted  islanders.  He  was  encouraged  to  this  by  learning  that 
Ethelbert,  king  of  Kent  and  the  most  potent  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  princes, 
had  married  Bertha,  a  Christian  princess,  only  daughter  of  the  king  of 
Paris,  and  that  she  was  allowed  by  stipulation  the  fuH  exercise  of  her 
religion. 

The  shrewd  pontiff  knew  the  influence  of  the  sex  in  tiatters  of  religious 
faith.  He  forthwith  despatched  Augustine,  a  Komaii  monk,  with  forty 
associates,  to  the  court  of  Ethelbert  at  Canterbury,  to  effect  the  conver- 
sion of  the  king  and  to  obtain  through  him  a  foothold  in  the  island. 

Ethelbert  received  them  warily,  and  held  a  conference  in  the  open  air, 
being  distrustful  of  foreign  priestcraft  and  fearf  il  of  spells  and  magic. 
They  ultimately  succeeded  in  making  him  as  good  a  Christian  as  his  wife; 
the  conversion  of  the  king  of  course  produced  the  conversion  of  his  loyal 
subjects.  The  zeal  and  success  of  Auguaiint;  were  rewarded  by  his  being 
made  archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  being  endowed  with  authority  over 
all  the  British  churches. 

Oneof  the  most  proTr.'  •-nt  converts  was  Segebert  or  Sebert,  king  of  the 
East  Saxons,  a  neph- •>,  i't  "thelbert.  He  reigned  at  London,  of  which 
Mellitus,  jae  of  thn  iiomui  monks  who  had  come  over  with  Augustine, 
was  made  bishop. 

Sebert  in  606,  in  his  religious  zeal,  founded  a  monastery  by  the  river- 
side to  the  west  of  the  city,  on  the  ruins  of  a  temple  of  Apollo,  being,  in 
fact,  the  origin  of  the  present  pile  of  Westminster  Abbey.  Great  prepa- 
rations were  made  for  the  consecration  of  the  church,  which  was  to  be 
dedicated  to  St.  Peter.  On  the  morning  of  the  appointed  day  Mellitus, 
the  bishop,  proceeded  with  great  pomp  and  solemnity  to  perform  the 
ceremony.  On  approaching  the  edifice  he  was  met  by  a  fisherman,  who 
informed  him  that  it  was  needless  to  proceed,  as  the  ceremony  was  over. 
The  bishop  stared  with  surprise,  when  the  fisherman  went  on  to  relate 
that  the  night  before,  as  he  was  in  his  boat  on  the  Thames,  St.  Peter 
appeared  to  him,  and  told  him  that  he  intended  to  consecrate  the  church 
himself  that  very  night.  The  apostle  accordingly  went  into  the  church, 
which  suddenly  became  illuminated.  The  ceremony  was  performed  in 
sumptuous  style,  accompanied  by  strains  of  heavenly  music  and  clouds 
of  fragrant  incense.  After  this  the  apostle  came  into  the  boat  and 
ordered  the  fisherman  to  cast  his  net.  He  did  so,  and  had  a  miraculous 
draught  of  fishes,  one  of  which  he  was  commanded  to  present  to  the 
bishoT;,  and  to  signify  to  him  that  the  apostle  had  relieved  him  from  the 
iiisce.^dty  of  consecrating  the  church. 

Mellitus  was  a  wary  man,  slow  of  belief,  and  required  confirmation  of 
the  fisherman's  tale.  He  opened  the  church  doors,  and  beheld  wax 
candles,  crosses,  holy  water,  oil  sprinkled  in  various  places,  aiiii  various 
other  traces  of  a  grand  ceremonial.  If  he  had  still  any  lingering  doubts, 
they  were  completely  removed  on  the  fisherman's  producing  the  identical 
fish  which  he  had  been  ordered  by  the  apostle  to  present  to  him.  To 
resist  this  would  have  been  to  resist  ocular  demonstration.  The  good 
bishop  accordingly  was  convinced  that  the  church  had  actually  been  con^ 


!    I 


APPENDIX. 


297 


secrated  by  St.  Peter  in  person;  so  lie  reverently  abstained  from  proceed- 
ing further  in  the  business. 

The  foregoing  tradition  is  said  to  be  the  reason  why  King  Edward  the 
Confessor  cliose  tliis  place  as  the  site  of  a  religious  house  which  he 
meant  to  endow.  He  pulled  down  the  old  church  and  built  another  in 
its  place  in  1045.  In  this  his  remains  were  deposited  in  a  magniticeut 
shrine. 

The  sacred  edifice  again  underwent  modific.iions,  if  not  a  recon- 
struction, by  Henry  ill.  in  1220,  and  began  to  assume  its  present 
appearance. 

Under  Henry  VIII.  it  lost  its  conventual  character,  that  monarch 
turning  the  monks  away  and  seizing  upon  the  revenues. 


RELICS  OF  EDWARD   THE  CONFESSOR. 

A  curious  narrative  was  printed  in  1688  by  on*»  of  the  choristers  of  the 
cathedral,  who  appears  to  have  been  the  Paul  Pry  of  the  sacred  edifice, 
giving  an  account  of  his  rummaging  among  the  bones  of  Edward  tl  e 
Confessor,  after  they  had  (|iiietly  reposed  in  their  sepulchre  upward*  <  C 
six  hundred  years,  and  of  his  drawing  forth  the  crucifix  and  golden  Viaiu 
of  the  deceased  monarch.  During  eighteen  years  that  he  had  officii'. t.ed 
in  the  choir  it  had  been  a  common  tradition,  he  says,  among  his  broth-  • 
choristers  and  the  gray-headed  servants  of  the  abbey  that  the  bod\  . 
King  Edward  was  deposited  in  a  kind  of  chest  or  coffin  which  was  in'dis- 
tiiu'lly  seen  in  the  upper  part  of  the  shrine  erected  to  his  memory.  None 
of  the  abbey  gossips,  however,  had  ventured  upon  nearer  inspection 
until  the  worthy  narrator,  to  gratify  his  curiosity,  anted  to  the  coHin 
by  the  aid  of  a  ladder,  and  found  it  to  be  made  of  jod,  apparently  very 
strong  and  firm,  being  secured  by  bands  of  iron. 

Subsequently,  in  108o,  on  taking  down  the  scaffolding  used  in  the  coro- 
nation of  James  II.,  the  coffin  was  found  to  be  I  ;uken,  a  hole  appearing 
in  the  lid,  probably  made  through  accident  by  the  workmen.  No  one 
ventured,  however,  to  meddle  with  the  sacrei'  depository  of  royal  dust 
until,  several  weeks  afterwards,  the  circumsta  e  came  to  the  knowledge 
of  the  aforesaid  chorister.  He  forthwith  repaired  to  the  abbey  in  com- 
l>any  with  two  friends  of  congenial  tastes,  who  were  desirous  of  inspect- 
ing the  tombs.  Procuring  a  ladder,  he  again  moimtcd  to  the  coffin,  and 
found,  as  had  been  represented,  a  hole  in  the  lid  about  six  inches  long 
and  four  inches  broad,  just  in  front  of  the  left  breast.  Thrusting  in  his 
hand  and  groping  among  the  bones,  he  drew  from  underneath  the 
shoulder  a  crucifix,  richly  adorned  and  enamelled,  affixed  to  a  gold  chain 
twenty-four  inches  long.  These  he  showed  to  his  inquisitive  friends, 
who  were  equally  surprised  with  himself. 

"  At  the  lime,"  says  he,  "  when  I  took  the  cr  ^^  and  chain  out  of  the 
coffin  7  drew  the  head  to  the  hole  and  viewed  ti,  being  very  sound  and 
firm,  with  the  upper  and  nether  jaws  whole  and  full  of  teeth,  and  a  list 
of  gold  above  an  inch  broad,  in  the  nature  of  a  coronet,  surrounding  the 
temples.  There  was  also  in  the  coffin  white  linen  and  gold-colored 
flowered  silk,  that  looked  indifferent  fresh;  but  the  least  stress  put  there- 
to showed  it  was  wellnigh  perished.  There  were  all  his  bones,  and  much 
dust  likewise,  which  I  left  aa  I  found." 


298 


THE  SKETCH-BOOK 


^ 


It  is  difficult  to  conceive  %  more  grotesque  lesson  to  human  pride  than 
the  skull  of  Edward  the  Confessor  thus  irreverently  pulled  about  in  its 
coffin  by  a  prying  chorister,  and  brought  to  grin  face  to  face  with  him 
through  a  hole  in  the  lid. 

Having  satisfied  his  curiosity,  the  chorister  put  the  crucifix  and  chain 
back  again  into  the  co^n,  and  sought  tiie  dean  to  apprise  him  of  his  dia- 
covery?  The  dean  not  being  accessible  at,  the  time,  and  fearing  that  the 
"  holy  treasure  "  might  be  taken  away  by  other  hands,  he  got  a  brother- 
chorister  to  accompany  him  to  the  shrine  about  two  or  three  hours  after- 
wards, and  in  his  presence  again  drew  forth  the  relics.  These  he  after- 
wards delivered  on  his  knees  to  King  James.  The  king  subsequently  had 
the  old  coffin  enclosed  in  a  new  one  of  great  strength,  *'  each  plank  being 
two  inches  thick  and  cramped  together  with  large  iron  v^^dges,  where  it 
now  remains  (168S)  as  a  testimony  of  his  pious  care,  thai  u^  abuse  might 
be  offered  to  the  sacred  ashes  therein  reposited." 

As  the  history  of  this  shrine  is  full  of  moral,  I  subjoin  a  description  of 
it  in  modern  times.  "The  solitary  and  forlorn  shrine,"  says  a  British 
writer,  "  now  stands  a  uiere  skeleton  of  what  it  was.  A  few  faint  traces 
of  its  sparkling  decorations  inlaid  on  solid  mortar  catches  the  rays  of  the 
sun,  forever  set  on  its  splendor.  .  .  .  Only  two  of  the  spiral  pillars  remain. 
The  wooden  Ionic  top  is  much  broken  and  covered  with  dust.  The  mosaic 
is  picked  away  in  every  part  within  reach ;  only  the  lozenges  of  about  a  foot 
square  and  five  circular  pieces  of  the  rich  marble  remain."  —  Malcolm, 
Land,  r^div- 


|f  1 1 


INSCRIPTION  ON  A  MONUMENT  ALLUDED 
TIIE  SKETCH. 


TO  IN 


Here  lyes  the  Loyal  Duke  of  Newcastle,  and  his  Dutchess  his  second 
■▼ife,  by  whom  he  had  no  issue.  Her  name  was  Margaret  Lucas,  youngest 
t'ster  to  the  Lord  Lucas  of  Colchester,  a  noble  family;  for  all  the  brothers 
Tf  ■«  valiant,  and  all  the  sisters  virtuous.  This  Dutchess  was  a  wise, 
wit;\  and  learned  lady,  which  her  many  Hookes  do  well  testify;  she  was 
"  va^iA  virtuous  and  loving  and  careful  wife,  and  was  with  her  lord  all 
ihn  time  of  his  banishment  and  miseries,  and  when  he  came  home,  never 
i,v„ntu  from  him  in  his  solitary  retirements. 


ii'  I'l 


h^ 


Tr  the  winter-time,  when  the  days  arc  short,  the  service  in  the  after- 
noon is  performed  by  the  lignt  of  tapirs.  Th*-  Hfpct  is  fine  of  (he  choir 
partially  I'.o^hted  up,  while  the  main  body  of  th«  'r»thedri.i  and  the  tran- 
septs arf  in  profound  and  cavernous  darkness.  'I'lie  white  drcsHes  of  the 
chorister.'  gleam  amidst  the  deep  brown  of  the  oaken  slats  ar..|  canopies; 
the  partial  illumination  makes  enormous  sha<iows  from  columns  and 
screens,  and,  da. ting  into  the  surrounding  gloom,  catches  here  and  there 
up-jn  a  sepulchral  decoration  or  monumental  effigy.  The  swelling  notes 
of  the  organ  accord  well  with  the  scene. 

When  the  service  is  over  the  dean  is  lighted  to  his  dwelling,  in  the  old 
conventual  part  of  the  pile,  by  the  boys  of  the  choir,  in  their  white  dri^sites, 
bearing  t«pers,  and  the  procession  passes  through  the  abbey  and  along 


m 


shadowy  cloisters,  lighting  up  angles  and  arches  and  grim  sepulchral  mon 
un'^nts,  and  leaving  all  behind  in  darkness. 


On  entering  the  cloisters  at  night  from  what  is  called  the  Dean's  Yard, 
the  eye,  ranging  through  a  dark  vaulted  passage,  catches  a  distant  view 
<if  a  white  marble  figure  reclining  on  a  tomb,  on  which  a  strong  glare 
ihrown  by  a  gas-light  has  quite  a  spectral  effect.  It  is  a  mural  monument 
of  one  of  the  Pultneys. 

'i'he  cloisters  are  well  worth  visiting  by  moonlight  when  the  moon  is  in 
1  lie  full. 


Note  i,  Page  181.  —  THE  CHRISTMAS  DINNER. 

At  the  time  of  the  first  publication  of  this  paper  the  picture  of  an  old- 
fasliioned  Christmas  in  the  country  was  pronounced  by  some  as  out  of 
(late.  The  author  had  afterwards  an  opportunity  of  witnessing  aJniost 
ail  llie  customs  above  described,  existing  in  unexpected  vigor  in  tiie  skirts 
of  Dorbysliire  and  Yorkshire,  where  he  passed  the  Christmas  holidays. 
'I'lie  leader  will  find  some  notice  of  them  in  the  author's  account  of  his 
sojourn  at  Newstead  Abbey. 


^OTBo.  Vkovi  206.  — STRATFORD  ON  J  VON. 

This  efflffy  is  in  white  marble,  anil  represents  the  Knight  in  complete 
jirniur.  Near  liim  lies  tlie  etilgy  of  his  w  ife,  and  on  iier  tomb  is  tiie  fol- 
lowing inscription ;  wliicli,  if  really  composed  l)y  her  husband,  places 
iiini  (juite  above  tlie  intellectual  level  of  Master  Slmllow  : 

Here  lyeth  the  Lady  .Joyce  Lucy  wife  of  Sr  Thomas  Lucy  of  Charle- 
cot  in  ye  county  of  Warwick,  Knight,  Daughter  and  heir  of  Thomas 
Acton  of  Sutton  in  ye  county  of  Worcester  Esiiuire  who  departed  out 
of  tills  wretched  world  to  her  heavenly  kingdom  ye  10  day  of  February 
ill  ye  yeareof  our  Lord  God  loOo  and  of  her  agefiO  and  tliree.  All  the  time 
of  lier  lyfe  a  true  and  faythful  servant  of  her  good  God,  never  detected 
of  any  cryme  or  vi'-j.  In  religion  most  sounde,  in  love  to  her  husband 
most  faytliful  and  true.  In  friendship  most  constant;  to  what  in  trust 
M  as  committed  unto  her  most  secret.  In  wisdom  excelling.  In  goveru- 
iiig  of  lier  house,  l)riuging  up  of  youth  in  ye  fear  of  God  that  did  con- 
verse with  her  inoste  rare  and  singular.  A  great  maintayner  of  hospi- 
tality. Greatly  esteemed  of  her  betters;  misliked  of  none  unless  of  the 
etivyoiiH.  Wlien  all  is  P|)oken  that  can  tie  saide  a  woman  so  garnished 
witli  virtue  as  not  to  be  bettered  and  hardly  to  l)e  equalled  by  any. 
As  sliee  lived  most  virtuously  so  sliee  died  most  Godly.  Set  downe  by 
him  yt  best  did  kuowe  what  hath  byn  written  to  be  true. 

Thomas  Lucye. 


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CO]SrTE:N^TS. 


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MOUNTJOT 3 

The  Gueat  Mississiri-i  Bubule 38 

Don  Juan 25 

Broek 73 

Sketches  in  Paris  in  1825 78 

Amekican  Ueseakcues  in  Italy 96 

TuE  Taking  of  the  Veil jqq 

The  P]auly  Expehiknces  ok  Ralph  Ringwood no 

The  Seminoles 237 

The  Conspikacy  of  Neamatiila 142 

Lettek  fuom  Granada 148 

Abuerahman , 153 

The  Widow's  Ordeal 171 

The  Creole  \illage • jgi 

A  Contented  Man 188 


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GEOFFREY    CRAYOK,    GENT. 


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MOUNTJOY : 


OR   SOME   PASSAGES    OUT   OF   THE   LIFE    OP   A   CASTLE-BUILDER. 


;i 


I  WAS  horn  among  romantic  scenery,  in  one  of  tlie  wildest 
parts  of  the  Hudson,  wliich  at  tliat  time  was  not  so  thickly  set- 
tled as  at  present.  My  father  was  descended  from  one  of  the 
old  Huguenot  families,  that  came  over  to  this  country  on  the 
revoo.ation  of  the  edict  of  Nantz.  He  lived  in  a  style  of  easy, 
rural  independence,  on  a  patrimonial  estate  that  had  been  for 
two  or  three  generations  in  the  family.  He  was  an  indolent, 
good-natured  man,  who  took  the  world  as  it  went,  and  had  a 
kind  of  laughing  philosophy,  that  parried  all  rubs  and  mishaps, 
and  served  him  in  the  place  of  wisdom.  This  was  the  part  of 
his  character  least  to  my  taste ;  for  I  was  of  an  enthusiastic, 
excitable  temperament,  prone  to  kindle  up  with  new  schemes 
and  projects,  and  he  was  apt  to  dash  my  sallying  enthusiasm  by 
some  unlucky  joke  ;  so  that  whenever  I  was  in  a  glow  with  any 
•iudden  exi'itement,  I  stood  in  mortal  dread  of  his  good-humor. 

Yet  he  indulged  me  in  every  vagary ;  for  I  was  an  only  son, 
and  of  course  a  personage  of  importance  in  the  household.  I 
had  two  sisters  older  than  myself,  and  one  younger.  The  former 
were  educated  at  New  York,  under  the  eye  of  a  maiden  aunt ; 
the  latter  remained  at  home,  and  was  my  cherished  playmate, 
the  companion  of  my  thoughts.  We  were  two  imaginative  little 
beings,  of  quick  susceptibility,  and  prone  to  see  wonders  and 
mysteries  in  everything  around  us.  Scarce  had  we  learned  to 
read,  when  our  mother  made  us  holiday  presents  of  all  the 
nursery  literature  of  the  day ;  which  at  tlipt,  time  consisted  of 


^       !/■ 


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THE    CRAYON   PAPERS. 


little  books  covered  with  gilt  paper,  adorned  with  •'  cuts,"  and 
tilled  with  tales  of  fairies,  giants,  and  enchanters.  What 
draughts  of  delightful  fiction  did  we  then  inhale !  My  sister 
Sophy  was  of  a  soft  and  tender  nature.  She  would  weep  over 
the  woes  of  the  Children  in  the  Wood,  or  quake  at  the  dark 
romance  of  Blue-Beard,  and  the  terrible  mysteries  of  the  blue 
chambe  .  But  I  was  all  for  enterprise  and  adventure.  I  burned 
to  emulate  the  deeds  of  tliat  heroic  priuce  who  delivered  the 
white  cat  from  her  enchantment ;  or  he  of  no  less  royal  blood, 
and  doughty  emprise,  who  broke  the  charmed  slumber  of  the 
Beauty  in  the  Wood ! 

The  house  in  which  we  lived  was  just  the  kind  of  place  to 
foster  such  propensities.  It  was  a  venerable  mansion,  half  villa, 
half  farmhouse.  The  oldest  part  was  of  stone,  with  loop-holes 
for  musketry,  having  served  as  a  family  fortress  in  the  time  of 
the  Indians.  To  this  there  had  been  made  various  additions, 
some  of  brick,  some  of  wood,  according  to  the  exigencies  of 
the  moment ;  so  that  it  was  full  of  nooks  and  crooks,  and  cham- 
bers of  all  sorts  and  sizes.  It  was  buried  among  willows,  elms, 
and  cherry  trees,  and  surrounded  with  roses  and  hollyhocks  with 
honeysuckle  and  sweet-brier  clambering  about  every  window.  A 
brood  of  hereditary  pigeons  sunned  themselves  upon  the  roof ; 
hereditary  swallows  and  martins  built  about  the  eaves  and  chim- 
neys; and  lieredilarv  bees  hummed  about  the  flower-beds. 

Under  the  influence  of  our  story-books  every  object  •'round 
us  now  assumed  a  new  character,  and  a  charmed  interest.  The 
wild  flowers  were  no  longer  the  mere  ornaments  of  the  fields,  or 
the  resorts  of  the  toilful  bee  ;  they  were  the  lurking  places  of 
fairies.  We  would  watch  the  humming-bird,  as  it  hovered 
around  the  trumpet  creeper  at  oar  porcii,  and  the  butterfly  as  it 
flitted  up  into  the  blue  air,  above  the  sunny  tree  tops,  and  fancy 
them  some  of  the  tiny  beings  from  fairyland.  1  would  call  to 
mind  all  that  I  had  read  of  Robin  Goodfellow  and  his  power  of 
transformation.  Oh,  how  I  envied  him  that  power!  IIow  1 
longed  to  be  able  to  compress  my  form  into  utter  littleness;  to 
ride  the  bold  dragon-fly;  swing  on  the  tall  bearded  grass ;  fol- 
low the  ant  into  his  subterraneous  habitation,  or  dive  into  the 
cavernous  depths  of  the  honeysuckle  ! 

While  I  was  yet  a  mere  child  I  was  sent  to  a  daily  school, 
about  two  miles  distant.  The  schoolhouse  was  on  the  edge  of 
a  wood,  close  by  a  brook  overhung  with  birches,  alders,  and 
dwarf  willows.  We  of  the  school  who  lived  at  some  distance 
came  with  our  dinners  put  up  in  little  baskets.  In  the  intervals 
of  school  hours  we  would  gather  round  a  spring,  under  a  tuft 


MOUNT  JOT. 


^"  and 
What 
y  sister 
ep  over 
le  dark 
he  blue 
burned 
red  the 

1  blood, 
of  the 

)lace  to 
ilf  villa, 
op-holes 

time  of 
Iditions, 
ncies  of 
id  cham- 
78,  elms, 
cks  with 
dow.  A 
,he  roof ; 
nd  ehim- 
ds. 

!t  "round 
St.  The 
fields,  or 
places  of 

hovered 
jrfly  UH  it 
lud  fiiiiey 

,d   C!\ll    to 

power  of 
How  1 
cuess ;  to 
•ass ;  fol- 
e  into  the 

ly  school, 
le  edge  of 
ders,  and 

2  distance 
1  intervals 
ier  a  tuft 


agam, 


of  hazcl-busbes,  and  have  a  kind  of  picnic ;  interchanging  the 
rustic  dainties  with  which  our  provident  mothers  had  fitted  us 
out.  Then  when  our  joyous  repast  was  over,  and  my  compan- 
ions were  disposed  for  play,  I  would  draw  forth  one  of  my  cher- 
ished storj'-books,  stretch  myself  on  the  greensward,  and  soon 
lose  myself  in  its  bewitching  contents. 

I  became  an  oracle  among  my  schoolmates  on  account  of  my 
superior  erudition,  and  soon  imparted  to  them  the  contagion  of 
my  infected  fancy.  Often  in  the  evening,  after  school  hours, 
we  would  sit  on  the  trunk  of  some  fallen  tree  in  the  woods,  and 
vie  with  each  other  in  telling  extravagant  stories,  until  the  whip- 
poor-will  began  his  nightly  moaning,  and  the  fire- flies  sparkled 
ia  the  gloom.  Then  came  the  perilous  journey  homeward. 
What  delight  we  would  take  in  getting  up  wanton  panics  in  some 
dusky  part  of  the  wood  ;  scampering  like  frightened  deer ;  paus- 
ing to  take  breath ;  renewing  the  panic,  and  scampering  off 
wild  with  fictitious  terror ! 

Our  greatest  trial  was  to  pass  a  dark,  lonely  pool,  covered 
with  pond-lilies,  peopled  with  bull-frogs  and  water  snakes,  and 
haunted  by  two  white  cranes.  Oh !  the  terrors  of  that  pond ! 
How  our  little  hearts  would  beat  as  we  approached  it ;  what 
fearful  glances  we  would  throw  around !  And  if  by  chance  a 
plash  of  a  wild  duck,  or  the  guttural  twang  of  a  bull-frog, 
struck  our  ears,  as  we  stole  quietly  by  —  away  we  sped,  nor 
paused  until  completely  out  of  the  woods.  Then,  when  I  reached 
home,  what  a  world  of  adventures  and  imaginary  terrors  would 
I  have  to  relate  to  my  sister  Sophy ! 

As  I  advanced  in  years,  this  turn  of  mind  increased  upon  me, 
and  became  more  confirmed.  I  abandoned  myself  to  the  im- 
pulses of  a  romantic  imagination,  which  controlled  my  studies, 
and  gave  a  bias  to  all  my  habits.  My  father  observed  me  con- 
tinually with  a  book  in  my  hand,  and  satisfied  himself  that  I 
was  a  profound  student ;  but  what  were  my  studies  ?  Works  of 
fiction  ;  tales  of  chivalry ;  voyages  of  discovery  ;  travels  in  the 
East;  everything,  in  short,  that  partook  of  adventure  and 
romance.  I  well  remember  with  what  zest  I  entered  upon  that 
part  of  my  studies  which  treated  of  the  heathen  mythology,  and 
particularly  of  the  sylvan  deities.  Then  indeed  my  school  books 
became  dear  to  me.  The  neighborhood  was  well  calculated  to 
foster  the  reveries  of  a  mind  like  mine.  It  abounded  with  soli- 
tary retreats,  wild  streams,  solemn  forests,  and  silent  valleys. 
I  would  ramble  about  for  a  whole  day  with  a  volume  of  Ovid's 
Metamorphoses  in  my  pocket,  and  work  myself  into  a  kind  of 
self-delusion,  so  as  to  identify  the  surrounding  scenes  with  those 


-I 


6 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


j»    ■ 


of  which  I  had  just  been  reading.  I  would  loiter  about  a  brook 
that  glided  through  the  shadowy  depths  of  the  forest,  picturing 
it  to  myself  the  haunt  of  Naiads.  I  would  steal  round  somu 
bushy  copse  that  opened  upon  a  glade,  as  if  I  expected  to  come 
suddenly  upon  Diana  and  her  nymphs,  or  to  behold  Pan  and  his 
satyrs  bounding,  with  whoop  and  halloo,  through  the  woodland. 
I  would  throw  myself,  during  the  panting  heats  of  a  summer 
noon,  under  the  shade  of  some  wide-spreading  tree,  and  muse 
and  dream  away  the  hours,  in  a  state  of  mental  intoxication.  I 
drank  in  tlie  very  light  of  day,  as  nectar,  and  my  soul  seemed 
to  bathe  with  ecstasy  in  the  deep  blue  of  a  summer  sky. 

In  these  wanderings,  nothing  occurred  to  jar  my  feelings,  or 
bring  me  back  to  the  realities  of  life.  There  is  a  repose  in  our 
miglity  forests  that  gives  full  scope  to  the  imagination.  Now 
and  then  I  would  hear  the  distant  sound  of  the  wood-cutter's 
or  the  crash  of  some  tree  which  he  had  laid  low  ;  but  these 


axe 


noises,  echoing  along  the  quiet  landscape,  could  easily  be  wrought 
by  fancy  into  harmony  with  its  illusions.  In  general,  however, 
tlie  woody  recesses  of  the  neighborhood  were  peculiarly  wild  and 
unfrequented.  I  could  ramble  for  a  whole  day,  without  coming 
upon  any  traces  of  cultivation.  The  partridge  of  the  wood 
scarcely  seemed  to  shun  my  path,  and  the  squirrel,  from  his  nut- 
tree,  would  gaze  at  me  for  an  instant,  with  sparkling  eye,  as  if 
wondering  at  the  unwonted  intrusion. 

1  cannot  help  dwelling  on  tliis  delicious  period  of  my  life ; 
when  as  yet  I  had  known  no  sorrow,  nor  experienced  any  world- 
ly care.  I  have  since  studied  much,  both  of  books  and  men, 
and  of  course  have  grown  too  wise  to  be  so  easily  pleased  ;  yet 
with  all  my  wisdom,  I  must  confess  I  look  back  with  a  secret 
feeling  of  regret  to  the  days  of  happy  ignorance,  before  1  had 
begun  to  be  a  philosopher. 


!  1  I 


I 


It  must  be  evident  that  I  was  in  a  hopeful  training  for  one 
who  was  to  descend  into  the  arena  of  life,  and  wrestle  with  tlie 
world.  The  tutor,  also,  who  superintended  my  studies  in  the 
more  advanced  stage  of  my  education  was  just  fitted  to  complete 
the  fata  morgana  which  was  forming  in  my  mind.  His  name 
was  Glencoe.  He  was  a  pale,  melancholy-looking  man,  about 
forty  years  of  age ;  a  native  of  Scotland,  liberally  educated, 
and  who  had  devoted  himself  to  the  instruction  of  youth  from 
taste  rather  than  necessity ;  for,  as  he  said,  he  loved  the  human 
heart,  and  delighted  to  study  it  in  its  earlier  impulses.  My  two 
eider  sisters,  having  returned  home  from  a  city  boarding-school. 


MOUNTJOT. 


were  likewise  placed  under  his  care,  to  direct  their  reading  in 
history  and  belles-lettres. 

We  all  soon  Ix'came  attached  to  Glencoe.  It  is  true,  we  were 
at  first  somewhat  prepossessed  against  him.  His  meagre,  pallid 
countenance,  his  broad  pronunciation,  his  inattention  to  the  little 
forms  of  society,  and  an  awkward  and  embarrassed  manner,  on 
first  acquaintance,  were  much  against  him  ;  but  we  soon  discov- 
ered that  under  this  unpromising  exterior  existed  the  kindest 
urbanity  of  temper ;  the  warmest  sympathies  ;  the  most  enthu- 
siastic benevolence.  His  mind  was  ingenious  and  acute.  His 
reading  had  been  various,  but  more  abstruse  than  profound  ;  liis 
memory  was  stored,  on  all  subjects,  with  facts,  theories,  and 
quotations,  and  crowded  witli  crude  materials  for  thinking. 
These,  in  a  moment  of  excitement,  would  be,  as  it  were,  melted 
down,  and  poured  forth  in  the  lava  of  a  heated  imagination.  At 
such  moments,  the  change  in  the  whole  man  was  wonderful.  His 
meagre  form  would  acquire  a  dignity  and  grace ;  his  long,  pale 
visage  would  flasli  with  a  hectic  glow  ;  his  eyes  would  beam  with 
intense  speculation  ;  and  there  would  be  patiietic  tones  and  deep 
modulations  in  his  voice,  that  delighted  the  ear,  and  spoke  mov- 
ingly to  the  heart. 

liut  what  most  endeared  him  to  us  was  the  kindness  and  sym- 
pathy with  which  he  entered  into  all  our  interests  and  wishes. 
Instead  of  curbing  and  checking  our  young  imaginations  with 
the  reins  of  sober  reason,  he  was  a  littK;  too  apt  to  catch  the 
impulse  and  be  hurried  away  with  us.  He  could  not  withstand 
the  excitement  of  any  sally  of  feeling  or  fancy,  and  was  prone 
to  lend  heightening  tints  to  the  illusive  coloring  of  youthful 
anticipations. 

Under  his  guidance  my  sisters  and  myself  soon  entered  upon 
a  more  extended  range  of  studies ;  but  while  they  wandered, 
with  delighted  minds,  through  the  wide  field  of  history  and 
belles-lettres,  a  nobler  walk  was  opened  to  my  superior  intel- 
lect. 

The  mind  of  Glencoe  presented  a  singular  mixture  of  philoso- 
phy and  poetry.  He  was  fond  of  metaphysics  and  prone  to 
indulge  in  abstract  speculations,  though  his  metaphysics  were 
somewhat  fine  spun  and  fanciful,  and  his  speculations  were  apt 
to  partake  of  what  my  father  most  irreverently  termed  "  hum- 
bug." For  my  part,  I  delighted  in  tliera,  and  the  more  espe- 
cially because  they  set  my  father  to  sleep  and  completely  con- 
founded my  sisters.  I  entered  with  my  accustomed  eagerness 
into  this  new  branch  of  study.  Metaphysics  were  now  my 
I'assion.     My  sisters  attempted  to  accompany  me,  but  they  soon 


!  (■ 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


i  "< 


faltered,  and  gave  out  before  they  had  got  half  way  through 
Smith's  Theory  of  the  Moral  Sentiments.  I,  however,  went  on, 
exulting  in  my  strength.  Glencoe  supplied  me  with  books,  an(l 
I  devoured  them  with  appetite,  if  not  digestion.  We  walked 
and  talked  together  under  the  trees  before  the  house,  or  sat 
apart,  like  Milton's  angels,  and  held  high  converse  upon  themes 
beyond  the  grasp  of  ordinary  intellects.  Glencoe  possessed  a 
kind  of  philosophic  chivalry,  in  imitation  of  the  old  peripatetic 
sages,  and  was  continually  dreaming  of  romantic  enterprises  iu 
morals,  and  splendid  systems  for  the  improvement  of  society. 
He  had  a  fanciful  mode  of  illustrating  abstract  subjects,  pecul- 
iarly to  my  taste ;  clothing  them  with  the  language  of  poetry, 
and  throwing  round  them  almost  the  magic  hues  of  fiction. 
"How  charming,"  thought  I,  "is  divine  philosophy;"  not 
harsh  and  crabbed,  as  dull  fools  suppose, 


"  But  a  perpetual  feast  of  ncctar'd  sweeta, 
Where  do  crude  surfeit  reigua." 


in 


■(   ^t 


I  felt  a  wonderful  self-complacency  at  being  on  such  excel- 
lent terms  with  a  man  whom  I  considered  on  a  parallel  with  the 
sages  of  antiquity,  and  looked  down  with  a  sentiment  of  pity  on 
the  feebler  intellects  of  ray  sisters,  who  could  comprehend  noth- 
ing of  metaphysics.  It  is  true,  when  I  attempted  to  study  them 
by  myself,  I  was  apt  to  get  iu  a  fog ;  but  when  Glencoe  came 
to  my  aid,  every  thing  was  soon  as  clear  to  me  as  day.  My  ear 
drank  in  the  beauty  of  his  words ;  my  imagination  was  dazzled 
with  the  splendor  of  his  illustrations.  It  caught  up  the  spar- 
kling sands  of  poetry  that  glittered  through  his  speculations,  and 
mistook  them  for  the  golden  ore  of  wisdom.  Struck  with  the 
facility  with  which  I  seemed  to  imbibe  and  relish  the  most 
abstract  doctrines,  I  conceived  a  still  higher  opinion  of  my 
mental  powers,  and  was  convinced  that  I  also  w.ts  a  pliilosopher. 

I  was  now  verging  toward  man's  estiito,  :ind  tiiougii  my  edu- 
cation had  been  extremely  irregular —  following  the  caprices  of 
my  humor,  which  I  mistook  for  the  impulses  of  my  genius  — 
yet  I  was  regarded  with  wonder  and  delight  by  my  mother  and 
sisters,  who  considered  me  almost  as  wise  and  infallible  as  I 
consider  myself.  This  high  opinion  of  me  was  strengthened 
by  a  declamatory  habit,  which  made  me  an  oracle  and  orator  at 
the  domestic  board.  The  time  was  now  at  hand,  however,  that 
was  to  put  my  philosophy  to  the  test. 

We  bad  passed  through  a  long  winter,  and  the  spring  at  length 
opened  upon  us  with  unusual  sweetness.     The  soft  serenity  of 


MOUNT  JOY. 


9 


that 


the  weather;  the  beauty  of  the  surrounding  country  ;  the  joyous 
notos  of  the  birds ;  the  babny  broatli  of  flower  and  blossom,  all 
coiubiued  to  fill  my  bosom  witli  indistinct  sensations,  ami  name- 
less wishes.  Amid  the  soft  sediictioub  of  the  season,  1  lapsed 
into  a  state  of  utter  indolence,  both  of  body  and  mind. 

Philosophy  had  lost  its  charms  for  me.  Metaphysics  —  faugh  ! 
I  tried  to  study  ;  took  down  volume  after  volume,  ran  my  eye 
vacantly  over  a  few  pages,  and  throw  them  by  with  distaste.  I 
loitered  about  the  house,  with  my  hands  in  ray  pockets,  and  an 
air  of  complete  vacancy.  Something  was  necessary  to  make  me 
happy  ;  but  what  was  that  something?  I  sauntered  to  the  apart- 
ments of  my  sisters,  hoi)ing  tluir  conversation  might  anmse  me. 
They  had  walked  out,  and  the  room  was  vacant.  On  the  table 
luy  a  volume  which  they  had  been  reading.  It  was  a  novel.  I  had 
never  read  a  novel,  having  conceived  a  conleuipt  for  works  of 
the  kind,  from  hearing  them  universally  coudenmed.  It  is  true, 
I  had  remarked  they  wt-re  universally  read;  but  1  considered 
them  beneath  the  attention  of  a  pliilosophi-r,  and  never  would 
venture  to  read  them,  lest  1  should  lessen  my  iiKiital  superi- 
ority in  the  eyes  of  my  sisters.  Nay,  I  had  taken  up  a  work 
of  the  kind  now  and  then,  when  I  knew  my  sisters  were  observ- 
ing me,  looked  into  it  for  a  moment,  and  then  laid  it  down, 
with  a  slight  supercilious  smile.  On  tiie  i)resent  occasion,  out 
of  mere  listlessncss,  I  took  up  the  volume  and  turned  over  a  few 
of  the  first  pages.     I  thought  1  heard  some  one  coming,  and 

and  wiiat  I 
further.     I 


laid  it  down.     I  was  mistaken;  no  one  was 
had  read,  tempted   ray  curiosity  to   read   a 


near, 
little 


leaned  against  a  window-frame,  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  com- 


pletely lost  in  the  story.  IIow  long  I  stood  there  reading  I 
know  not,  but  I  believe  for  nearly  two  hours.  Sndileuly  I 
heard  my  sisters  on  the  stairs,  when  1  thrust  the  hook  into  uiy 
bosom,  and  the  two  other  volumes  which  lay  near  into  my  pock- 
ets, and  hurried  out  of  the  house  to  ray  beloved  woods,  lleie 
I  remained  all  day  beneath  the  trees,  bewildered,  i»ewitehed, 
devouring  the  contents  of  these  delicious  volumes,  and  only  re- 
turned to  the  house  when  it  was  too  dark  to  peruse  their  pages. 
This  novel  finished,  I  replaced  it  in  my  sistenj'  apartment,  and 
iOdked  for  others.  Their  stock  was  ample,  for  they  had  brought 
home  all  that  were  current  in  the  city ;  but  my  appetite  demand- 
ed an  immense  supply.  All  this  course  of  reading  was  carried 
on  clandestinely,  for  I  was  a  little  ashamed  of  it,  and  fearful 
that  my  wisdom  might  be  called  in  question  ;  but  this  very  pri- 
vacy gave  it  additional  zest.  It  was  "  bread  eaten  in  secret;  " 
it  had  the  charm  of  a  private  amour. 


\M. 


10 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


'\     I 


But  think  what  must  have  been  the  effect  of  such  a  course  of 
reading  on  a  youth  of  my  temperament  and  turn  of  mind  ;  in- 
dulged, too,  amid  romantic  scenery  and  in  the  romantic  season 
of  the  year.  It  seemed  as  if  I  had  entered  upon  a  new  scene 
of  existence.  A  train  of  combustible  feelings  were  lighted  up 
in  me,  and  my  soul  was  all  tenderness  and  passion.  Never  was 
youth  more  completely  love-sick,  though  as  yet  it  was  a  mere 
general  sentiment,  and  wanted  a  definite  object.  Unfortunately, 
our  neighborhood  was  particularly  deficient  in  female  society, 
and  I  languished  in  vain  for  some  divinity  to  whom  I  might  offer 
up  this  most  uneasy  burden  of  affections.  I  was  at  one  time 
seriously  enamoured  of  a  lady  whom  I  saw  occasionally  in  my 
rides,  reading  at  the  window  of  a  country-scut;  and  actually 
serenaded  her  with  my  flute  ;  when,  to  my  confusion,  I  discov- 
ered that  she  was  old  enough  to  be  my  mother.  It  was  a  sad 
damper  to  my  romance  ;  especially  as  my  father  heard  of  it,  and 
made  it  the  subject  of  one  of  those  household  jokes  which  he 
was  apt  to  serve  up  at  every  meal-time. 

I  soon  recovered  from  this  check,  however,  but  it  was  only  to 
relapse  into  a  state  of  amorous  excitement.  I  passed  whole 
days  in  the  fields,  and  along  the  brooks ;  for  there  is  something 
in  the  tender  passion  that  makes  us  alive  to  the  beauties  of 
nature.  A  soft  sunshiny  morning  infused  a  sort  of  rapture  into 
my  breast.  I  flung  open  my  arms,  like  the  (Jrecian  youth  in 
Ovid,  as  if  I  would  take  in  and  embrace  the  balmy  atmosphere.' 
The  song  of  the  birds  melted  me  to  tenderness.  I  would  lie  by 
the  side  of  some  rivulet  for  hours,  and  lorm  garlands  of  the 
flowers  on  its  banks,  and  muse  on  ideal  beauties,  and  sigli  from 
the  crowd  of  undefined  emotions  that  swelled  my  bosom. 

In  this  state  of  amorous  delirium,  I  was  strolling  one  morn- 
ing along  a  beautiful  wild  brook,  which  I  had  discovered  in  a 
glen.  There  was  one  place  where  a  small  waterfall,  leaping 
from  among  rocks  into  a  natural  basin,  made  a  scene  such  as  a 
poet  might  have  chosen  as  the  haunt  of  some  shy  Naiad.  It 
was  here  I  usually  retired  to  banquet  on  my  novels.  In  visiting 
the  place  this  morning  I  traced  distinctly,  on  the  margin  of  the 
basin,  which  was  of  fine  clear  sand,  the  prints  of  a  female  foot 
of  the  most  slender  and  delicate  proportions.  This  was  sulfi- 
cient  for  an  imagination  like  mine.  Robinson  Crusoe  himself, 
when  he  discovered  the  print  of  a  savage  foot  on  the  beach  of 
his  lonely  island,  could  not  have  been  more  suddenly  assailed 
with  thick-coming  fancies. 

>  Ovid'i  MeUmorphoies,  Book  VII. 


MOUNT  JOT. 


11 


I  endeavored  to  track  the  steps,  but  they  only  passed  for  a 
few  paces  along  the  flue  sand,  and  then  were  lost  among  the 
hi'rl)age.  I  remained  gazing  in  revery  upon  this  passing  trace 
of  loveliness.  It  evidently  was  not  made  by  any  of  my  sisters, 
for  they  knew  nothing  of  this  Imunt ;  beside,  the  foot  was 
smaller  than  theirs ;  it  was  remarkable  for  its  beautiful  deli- 
cacy. 

My  eye  accidentally  caught  two  or  three  half-withered  wild 
I  flowers   lying   on    the   ground.      T' e    unknown    nymph    had 

(loubiless  dropped  them  from  her  bosom  !  Here  was  a  new 
document  of  taste  and  sentiment.  I  treasured  them  up  as 
invaluable  relics.  The  place,  too,  where  I  found  them,  was 
remarkably  picturesque,  and  the  most  l)eautiful  part  of  the 
brook.  It  was  overhung  with  a  fine  elm,  intwined  with  grape- 
vines. She  who  could  select  such  a  spot,  who  could  delight  in 
wild  brooks,  and  wild  flowers,  and  silent  solitudes,  must  have 
fancy,  and  feeling,  and  tenderness  ;  and  with  all  these  qualities, 
she  must  be  beautiful ! 

But  who  could  be  this  Unknown,  that  had  thus  passed  by,  as 
in  a  morning  dream,  leaving  merely  flowers  and  fairy  footsteps 
to  toll  of  her  loveliness?  There  was  a  mystery  in  it  that  be- 
wildered me.  It  was  so  vague  and  disembodied,  like  those 
''  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names  "  in  solitude.  Every 
attempt  to  solve  the  mystery  was  vain.  I  could  hear  of  no 
being  in  the  neighborhood  to  whom  this  trace  could  be  ascribed. 
I  haunted  the  spot,  and  became  daily  more  and  more  enamoured. 
Never,  surely,  was  passion  more  pure  and  spiritual,  and  never 
lover  in  more  dubious  situation.  My  case  could  be  compared 
only  to  that  of  the  amorous  prince  in  the  fairy  tale  of  Cinder- 
ella ;  but  he  had  a  glass  slipper  on  which  to  lavish  his  tender- 
ness.    I,  alas  !  was  in  love  with  a  footstep ! 


ig 


"  airy 
"  and 


The  imagination  is  alternately  a  cheat  and  a  dupe ;  nay, 
more,  it  is  the  most  subtle  of  cheats,  for  it  cheats  itself  and 
becomes  tlie  dupe  of  its  own  delusions.  It  conjures  up 
nothings,"  gives  to  them  a  "  local  habitation  and  a  name, 
then  bows  to  their  control  as  implicitly  as  though  they  were 
realities.  Such  was  now  my  case.  The  good  Numa  could  not 
more  thoroughly  have  persuaded  himself  that  the  nymph 
Egeria  hovered  about  her  sacred  fountain  and  communed  with 
him  in  spirit,  than  I  had  deceived  myself  into  a  kind  of  vision- 
ary intercourse  with  the  airy  phantom  fal)ricated  in  my  brain. 


12 


TUK  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


M 


\<r    :       fl 


I  constructed  a  rustic  sosit  iit  the  foot  of  the  tree  where  I  had 
discovered  the  footsteps.  I  made  a  kind  of  bower  there,  where 
I  used  to  pass  my  morninjrs  reading  poetry  and  romances.  I 
carved  hearts  and  darts  on  tiie  tree,  an<l  hun<^  it  with  garlands. 
My  heart  was  full  to  overllowing,  and  wanted  some  faithful 
bosom  into  which  it  mi<i;ht  relieve  itself.  What  is  a  lover 
without  a  confidante?  I  tli()U<i;ht  at  once  of  my  sister  Sopliy, 
my  early  playmate,  the  sister  of  my  affections.  She  was  so 
reasonable,  too,  and  of  such  correct  feelin«is,  always  listeniiii; 
to  my  words  as  oracular  sayin<^s,  and  admirinj;  my  scraps  t>l' 
poetry  as  the  very  inspirations  of  the  muse.  From  such  a  de- 
voted, such  a  rational  lieiiij^,  what  secrets  could  I  have? 

I  accordingly  took  her  one  morning  to  my  favorite  retreiit. 
She  looked  around,  witli  delighted  surprise,  ui)on  the  rustic 
seat,  the  bower,  the  trec^  carved  with  emblems  of  the  tender 
passion.  She  turned  her  eyes  u\yon  me  to  inquire  the  mean- 
ing. 

"Oh,  Sophy,"  exclaimed  I,  clasping  both  her  hands  in  mine, 
and  looking  earnestly  in  her  face,  '•  I  am  in  love." 

She  started  with  surprise. 

"  Sit  down,"  said  1,  ''  and  I  will  tell  you  all." 

She  seated  herself  upon  tiie  rustic  bench,  and  I  went  into  a 
full  history  of  the  footstep,  with  all  the  associations  of  idea 
that  iiad  been  conjured  uj)  Ity  my  imagination. 

Sophy  was  enchanted  ;  it  was  like  a  fairy  tale ;  she  had  read 
of  such  mysterious  visitations  in  books,  and  the  loves  thus  con- 
ceived were  always  for  Iteiiigs  of  superior  order,  and  were 
always  happy.  She  caught  the  illusion  in  all  its  force ;  her 
cheek  gloweil;  her  eye  brigiitened. 

"I  dare  say  she's  pretty,"  said  Sophy. 

"  Pretty  I  "  echoed  I,  "she  is  beautiful  I  "  I  went  through 
all  the  reasoning  by  which  I  had  logically  proved  the  fact  to  my 
own  satisfaction.  I  dwelt  u\)o\\  the  evidences  of  her  taste,  her 
sensibility  to  the  beauties  of  nature  ;  her  soft  meditative  habit, 
that  delighted  in  solitude.  "Oh."  said  I.  clasping  my  hands, 
"to  have  such  a  conij)anion  to  wander  through  these  scenes; 
to  sit  with  her  by  this  nuu-umring  stream  ;  to  wreathe  garlands 
round  her  brows  ;  to  hear  the  nmsic  of  her  voice  mingling  with 
the  whisperings  of  these  groves  ;  —  " 

"Delightful!  delightful!"  cried  Sophy;  "what  a  sweet 
creature  she  must  be  !  She  is  just  the  friend  I  want.  How 
I  shall  dote  upon  her !  Oh,  my  dear  brother !  you  must  not 
keep  her  all  to  yourself.  You  must  let  me  have  some  share  of 
her!" 


MOUNTJOY.  13 

I  caught  licr  to  my  hosorn  :  '•  You  sliall  —  you  shall !  "  cried 
I,  "  my  clear  Sophy  ;  we  will  all  live  for  each  other  I" 


The  conversation  with  So])hy  lu'ifi;htoned  the  illusions  of  ray 
mind  ;  and  the  niauner  in  wliieh  she  had  treated  my  day-dream 
identified  it  with  facts  and  persons  and  gave  it  still  more  the 
(Stamp  of  reality.  I  walkcvl  about  as  one  in  a  trance,  heedless 
of  the  world  around,  and  lapped  in  an  elysium  of  the  fancy. 

In  this  mood  I  met  one  morning  with  (ilencoe.  He  accosted 
me  with  his  usual  smile,  and  was  proceeding  with  some  general 
observations,  but  paused  and  (ixed  on  me  an  inquiring  eye. 

"What  is  tilt!  matter  with  you?"  said  he,  "you  seem  agi- 
tated; has  anything  in  particular  happened?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  I,  hesitating  ;  '*  at  least  nothing  worth  com- 
municating to  you." 

"Nay,  my  dear  young  friend,"  said  he,  "whatever  is  of 
sufflcient  importance  to  agitate  you  is  worthy  of  being  com- 
njunicated  to  me." 

"  Well ;  but  my  thoughts  are  running  on  what  you  would 
think  a  frivolous  subject." 

"  No  subject  is  frivolous  that  has  the  power  to  awaken  strong 
feelings." 

"What  think  you,"  said  I,  hesitating,  "what  think  you  of 
love?" 

Glencoe  almost  started  at  the  qmstion.  "Do  you  call  that 
a  frivolous  subject?"  replied  he.  "Believe  me,  there  is  none 
fraught  witli  such  deep,  such  vital  interest.  If  you  talk, 
indeed,  of  the  capricious  inciination  awakened  by  the  mere 
charm  of  perishable  beauty,  I  grant  it  to  be  idle  in  the  extreme ; 
but  that  love  which  springs  from  the  concordant  sympathies  of 
virtuous  hearts ;  that  love  which  is  awakened  by  the  perception 
of  moral  excellence,  and  fed  by  meditation  on  intellectual  as 
well  as  personal  beauty ;  that  is  a  passion  which  refines  and  en^ 
nobles  the  human  heart.  Oh,  where  is  there  a  sight  more  nearly 
approaching  to  the  intercourse  of  angels,  than  that  of  two 
young  beings,  free  from  the  sins  and  follies  of  the  world,  min- 
gling pure  thoughts,  and  looks,  and  feelings,  and  becoming  as  it 
were  soul  of  one  soul  and  heart  of  one  heart !  How  exquisite 
the  silent  converse  that  they  hold  ;  the  soft  devotion  of  the  eve, 
that  needs  no  words  to  make  it  eloquent!  Yes,  my  frie.  ,  if 
there  be  any  thing  in  this  weary  world  worthy  of  heaven,  it  is 
the  pure  bliss  of  such  a  mutual  affection !  " 


14 


THE  CRArON  PAPERS. 


The  words  of  my  worthy  tutor  overcame  al!  further  reserve. 
"  Mr.  Glencoe,"  cried  I,  blushing  still  deeper,  "  I  am  in  love.  ' 

"  Aiid  is  that  what  you  were  ashamed  to  tell  me?  Oh,  never 
seek  to  conceal  from  your  friend  so  important  a  secret.  If  your 
passion  be  unworthy,  it  is  for  the  steady  hand  of  friendship 
to  pluck  it  forth  ;  if  honorable,  none  but  an  enemy  would  seek  to 
stifle  it.  On  nothing  does  the  character  and  happiness  so  much 
depend  as  on  the  first  affection  of  the  heart.  Were  you  caught 
by  some  fleeting  and  superficial  charm  —  a  bright  eye,  a  bloom- 
ing cheek,  a  soft  voice,  or  a  voluptuous  form  —  I  would  wurn 
you  to  beware ;  I  would  tell  you  that  beauty  is  but  a  passing 
gleam  of  the  morning,  a  perishable  flower ;  that  accident  may 
becloud  and  blight  it,  and  that  at  best  it  must  soon  pass  away. 
But  were  you  in  love  with  such  a  one  as  I  could  dencribe  ;  young 
in  years,  hut  still  younger  in  feelings  ;  lovely  in  p  uson,  but  us 
a  type  of  the  mind's  beauty ;  soft  in  voice,  in  token  of  gentle- 
ness of  spirit ;  blooming  in  countenance,  like  the  rosy  tints  of 
morning  kindling  with  the  promise  of  a  genial  day ,  an  eye 
beaming  with  the  benignity  of  a  happy  heart ;  a  cheerful  temper, 
alive  to  all  kind  impulses,  and  frankly  diffusing  its  own  felicity  ; 
a  self-ix)ised  mind,  that  needs  not  lean  on  others  for  support ; 
an  elegant  taste,  that  can  embellish  solitude,  and  furnish  out  its 
own  enjoyments  —  " 

"  My  dear  sir,"  cried  I,  for  I  could  contain  myself  no 
longer,  "  you  have  described  the  very  person  !  '* 

"Why,  then,  my  dear  young  friend,"  said  he,  affectionately 
pressing  my  hand,  "  in  Gotl's  name,  love  on  !  " 


• 


i   '- 


\-\ 


For  the  remainder  of  the  day  I  was  in  some  such  state  of 
dreamy  beatitude  as  a  Turk  is  said  to  enjoy  when  under  the 
influence  of  opium.  It  must  be  already  manifest  how  prone  I 
was  to  bewilder  myself  with  picturiugs  of  the  fancy,  so  as  to 
confound  them  with  existing  realities.  In  the  present  instance, 
Sophy  and  Glencoe  had  contributed  to  promote  the  transient 
■'.'lusion.  Sophy,  dear  girl,  had  as  usual  joined  with  me  in  my 
,astle-building,  and  indulged  in  the  same  train  of  imaginings, 
while  Glencoe,  duped  by  my  enthusiasm,  firmly  believed  that  I 
spoke  of  a  being  I  had  seen  and  known.  By  their  sympathy 
with  my  feelings  they  in  a  manner  became  associated  with  the 
Unknown  in  my  mind,  and  thus  linked  her  with  the  circle  of  my 
intimacy. 

In  the  evening,  our  family  i)arty  was  assembled  in  the  hall,  to 


MOUNTJOT. 


15 


er  resen'e. 

1  in  love.  ' 

Oh,  uever 

..    If  your 

frieudship 

lid  seek  to 

iis  so  much 

you  caught 

a  V)loom- 

ould  wurn 

I  a  passing 

ident  may 

[)ass  away. 

be ;  young 

son,  but  as 

of  gentle- 

sy  tints  of 

y,   au  eye 

ul  temper, 

ni  felicity ; 

)!•  support ; 

lish  out  its 

myself  no 

fectionatcly 


eh  state  of 
under  the 
low  prone  I 
y,  so  as  to 
It  instance, 
le  transient 
i  me  iu  uiy 
[maginiugs, 
?ved  that  I 
!•  sympathy 
gd  with  the 
jircle  of  my 

the  hall,  to 


enjoy  the  refreshing  breeze.  Sophy  was  playing  some  favorite 
Scotch  airs  on  the  piano,  while  Glencoe,  seated  apart,  with  his 
forehead  resting  on  his  hand,  was  buried  in  one  of  those  ptiidive 
reveriea  that  made  hira  so  interesting  to  me. 

"What  a  fortunate  being  I  am  !  "  thought  I,  "  blessed  with 
such  a  sister  and  such  a  friend  !  I  have  only  to  find  out  this 
aisi'able  Unknown,  to  wed  her,  aid  be  happy  !  What  a  paradise 
will  bt  mj'  iiome,  graced  with  a  partner  of  such  exquisite  refine- 
ment !  It  will  be  a  perfect  fairy  bower,  buried  among  sweets 
and  roses.  Sophy  shall  live  with  us,  and  be  the  companion  of 
all  our  enjoyments.  Glencoe,  too,  shall  no  more  be  the  solitary 
being  that  he  now  appears.  He  shall  have  a  home  with  us.  He 
shall  have  his  study,  where,  when  he  pleases,  he  may  shut  him- 
self up  from  tha  world,  and  bury  himself  in  his  own  reflections. 
His  retreat  shall  be  sacred ;  no  one  shaU  intrude  there  ;  no  one 
but  myself,  who  will  visit  him  now  and  then,  in  his  seclusion, 
where  we  will  devise  grand  schemes  together  for  the  improve- 
ment of  mankind.  How  delightfully  our  days  will  pass,  in  a 
lound  of  rational  pleasures  and  elegant  employments  !  Some- 
times we  will  have  music;  sometimes  we  will  read;  sometimes 
we  will  wander  through  the  flower  garden,  when  I  will  smile  with 
complacency  on  every  flower  my  wife  has  planted ;  while  in  the 
long  winter  evenings  the  ladies  will  sit  at  their  work,  and  listen 
with  hushed  attention  to  Glencoe  and  myself,  as  we  discuss  the 
abstruse  doctrin(?s  of  metaphysics." 

From  this  delectable  revory,  I  was  startled  by  my  father's 
slapping  me  on  the  shoulder :  *'  W^at  poissesses  the  lad? "  cried 
be ;  '^  here  have  I  been  speaking  to  you  half  a  dozen  times,  with- 
out receiving  an  answer." 

"  Pardon  me,  sir,"  replied  I ;  "  I  was  so  completely  lost  in 
thought,  that  I  did  not  hear  you." 

"  Lost  in  thought !  And  pray  what  were  you  thinking  of? 
Some  of  your  philosophy;  I  suppose." 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  my  sister  Charlotte,  with  an  arch 
laugh,  "  I  suspect  Harry's  in  love  again." 

"And  if  I  were  in  love,  Charlotte,"  said  I,  somewhat  net- 
tled, and  recollecting  Glencoe'g  enthusiastic  eulogy  of  the  pas- 
sion, "  if  I  were  in  love,  is  that  a  matter  of  jest  and  laughter? 
Is  the  tenderest  and  most  fervid  affection  that  can  animate  the 
human  breast,  to  be  made  a  matter  of  cold-hearted  ridicule?" 

My  sister  colored.  "Certainly  not,  brother !  —  nor  did  I  mean 
to  make  it  so,  nor  to  say  anything  that  should  wound  your  feel- 
ings. Had  I  really  suspected  you  had  formed  some  genuine 
attachment,  it  would  have  been  sacred  in  my  eyes;  but  —  but," 


1 


!     1  I 


16 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS 


'  |\r 


h 


\    Mi 


said  she,  smiling,  as  if  atsoine  whimsical  recollection,  "  I  thoughv 
that  yon  —  you  might  be  indulging  in  another  little  freak  of  the 
imagination." 

''  I'll  wager  any  money,"  cried  my  father,  "  he  has  fallen  in 
love  again  with  some  old  lady  at  a  window  !  " 

♦'  Oh  no !  "  cried  my  dear  sister  Sophy,  with  the  most  gracious 
warmth ;  "  she  is  young  and  beautiful." 

"From  what  I  understand,"  said  Glencoe,  rousing  himself, 
*'8he  must  be  lovely  in  mind  as  m  person." 

I  found  my  friends  were  getting  me  into  a  fine  scrape.  I  began 
to  perspiV'j  at  every  jwre,  and  felt  my  ears  tingle. 

"  Well,  but,"  cried  my  fattier,  "  who  is  she?  —  what  is  she? 
Let  us  hear  something  about  her." 

This  was  no  time  to  explain  so  delicate  a  matter.  I  caught 
up  my  hat,  and  vanished  out  of  the  house. 

The  moment  I  was  in  the  open  air,  and  alone,  my  heart  up- 
braided me.  Was  this  respectful  treatment  to  my  father  —  to 
such  a  father,  too  —  .vho  had  always  regarded  me  as  tiie  pride 
of  his  age  —  the  staff  of  his  hopes?  It  is  true,  he  was  apt  some- 
times to  laugh  at  my  enthusiastic  flights,  and  did  not  treat  my 
philosophy  with  due  respect ;  but  when  had  he  ever  thwarted  a 
wish  of  my  heart?  Was  I  then  tj  act  with  reserve  oward  him, 
in  a  iiialter  which  might  affect  tiie  whole  current  of  my  future 
life?  "  I  have  done  wrong,"  thought  I ;  "  but  it  is  not  too  late 
to  remedy  it.  I  will  hasten  back  and  open  my  whole  heart  to 
my  father! " 

I  returned  accordingly,  and  was  just  on  the  poiat  f  entering 
the  house,  w  ith  my  heavt  full  of  filial  piety,  v  id  a  contrite  speech 
upon  my  lips,  when  I  heard  a  burst  of  obstreperous  laughter 
from  my  father,  and  a  loud  titter  from  my  two  eldei  sisters. 

"  A  footstep  !  "  shouted  lie,  as  soon  as  he  could  recover  him- 
self;  "in  love  with  a  footstep!  Why,  this  Ijeats  the  old  lady 
at  the  window  !  "  And  then  there  was  another  appalling  burst 
of  laugliter.  Had  it  been  a  clap  of  thunder,  it  could  hardly  have 
astounded  me  more  completely.  Sophy,  in  the  simplicity  of  her 
neart,  had  told  all,  and  had  set  my  father's  risible  propensities 
in  full  action. 

Never  was  poor  mortal  so  thoroughly  crestfallen  as  myself. 
The  whole  delusion  was  at  an  end.  I  drew  off  silently  from  the 
house,  shrinking  smaller  and  smaller  at  every  fresh  peal  of 
laughter;  ii  J  wandering  about  until  the  family  ^"xd  retired, 
stole  quietly  to  my  bed.  Scarce  any  sleep,  however,  visited  my 
eyes  that  night !  I  lay  overwhelmed  with  mortification,  and 
meditating  how  I  might  meet  the  family  in  the  morning.     The 


MOUNT  JOY. 


IT 


of  the 


Idea  of  ridicule  was  always  intolerable  to  me ;  but  to  endure  it 
on  a  subject  by  which  my  feelings  had  been  so  much  excited, 
seemed  worse  than  death.  I  almost  determined,  at  one  time,  to 
get  up,  saddle  my  horse,  and  ride  off,  I  knew  not  whither. 

At  length  1  came  to  a  res  olution.  Before  going  down  to  break- 
fast, I  sent  for  Sophy,  and  employed  her  as  ambassador  to  treat 
formally  in  the  matter.  I  insisted  that  the  subject  should  be 
buried  in  oblivion  ;  other^'ise  I  would  not  show  my  face  at  table. 
It  was  readily  agreed  to ;  for  not  one  of  the  family  would  have 
given  me  pain  for  the  world.  They  faithfully  kept  their  promise. 
Not  a  word  was  .?aid  of  the  matter ;  but  there  were  wry  faces, 
and  suppressed  titters,  that  went  to  my  soul ;  and  whenever  my 
father  looked  me  in  the  face,  it  was  with  such  a  tragic-comical 
leor  —  such  an  attempt  to  pull  down  a  serious  brow  upon  a 
whimsical  mouth  —  that  I  had  a  thousand  times  rather  he  had 
laughed  outright. 


For  a  day  or  two  after  the  mortifying  occurrence  just  related, 
I  kept  as  much  as  possible  out  of  the  way  of  the  family,  and 
wandered  about  the  fields  and  woods  by  myself.  I  was  sadly 
out  of  tune ;  my  feelings  were  all  jarred  and  unstrung.  The 
birds  sang  from  every  grove,  but  1  took  no  pleasure  in  their 
melody ;  and  the  flowers  of  the  field  bloomed  unheeded  around 
me.  To  be  crossed  in  love,  is  bad  enough ;  but  then  one  can 
fly  to  poetry  for  relief,  and  turn  one's  woes  to  account  in  soul- 
siibduing  stanzas.  But  to  have  one's  whole  passion,  object  and 
all,  auniiiilated,  dispelled,  proved  to  be  such  stuff  as  dreams  are 
made  of  —  or,  worse  than  all,  to  be  turned  into  a  proverb  and  a 
jest  —  what  consolation  is  tliere  in  such  a  case? 

1  avoided  the  fatal  brook  where  I  had  seen  the  footstep.  My 
favorite  resort  was  now  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  where  I  sat 
upon  the  roci:s  and  mused  ujwn  the  current  that  dimpled  by,  or 
the  waves  that  laved  the  shore  ;  or  watched  the  bright  mutations 
of  the  clouds,  and  the  shifting  lights  and  shadows  of  the  distant 
mountain.  By  degrees  a  returning  serenity  stole  over  my  feel- 
ings ;  and  a  sigh  now  and  then,  gentle  and  easy,  and  unattended 
by  pain,  showed  that  my  heart  was  recovering  its  susceptibility. 

As  I  was  sitting  in  this  musing  mood  my  eye  became  gradually 
fixed  upon  an  object  that  was  borne  along  by  the  tide.  It  proved 
to  be  a  little  pinnace,  beautifully  modelled,  and  gayly  painted 
and  decorated.  It  was  an  unusual  sight  in  this  neighborhood, 
which  was  rather  lonely  ;  indeed,  it  was  rare  to  see  any  pleas- 
ure-barks in  this  part  of  t'ae  river.     As  it  drew  nearer,  I  per* 


;    !^ 


18 


TnE  CnAYON  PAPERS. 


1 1   r' 


ceived  that  thero  was  no  one  on  board  ;  it  had  apparently  drifted 
from  its  anchorasre.  There  was  not  a  breath  of  air ;  the  little 
bark  came  floating  along  on  the  glassy  stream,  wheeling  about 
with  the  eddies.  At  length  it  ran  aground,  almost  at  the  foot 
of  the  rock  on  whieh  I  was  seated.  I  descended  to  the  margin 
of  the  river,  and  drawing  the  bark  to  shore,  admired  its  light 
and  elegant  proportions  and  the  taste  with  wliieli  it  was  fitted 
ap.  The  benches  were  covered  with  cushions,  and  its  long 
streamer  was  of  silk.  On  one  of  the  cushions  lay  a  lady's  glove, 
of  delicate  size  and  shape,  with  beautifully  tapered  fingers.  I 
instantly  seized  it  and  thrust  it  in  my  bosom  ;  it  seemed  a  match 
for  the  fairy  footstep  that  had  so  fascinated  me. 

In  a  moment  all  the  romance  of  my  bosom  was  again  in  a 
glow.  Here  was  one  of  the  very  incidents  of  fairy  tale  ;  a  bark 
sent  by  some  invisible  power,  some  gootl  genius,  or  benevolent 
fairy,  to  waft  me  to  some  delectable  adventure.  I  recollected 
something  of  an  enchanted  bark,  drawn  by  white  swans,  that 
convej'ed  a  knight  down  the  current  of  the  Uliine,  on  some 
enterprise  connected  with  love  and  beauty.  Tlie  glove,  too, 
showed  that  there  was  a  lady  fair  concerned  in  the  present 
adventure.  It  might  be  a  gauntlet  of  defiance,  to  dare  me  to 
the  enterprise. 

In  the  spirit  of  romance  and  the  whim  of  the  moment,  I 
sprang  on  board,  hoisted  the  light  sail,  and  pushed  from  shore. 
As  if  breathed  by  some  presiding  power,  a  light  breeze  at  that 
moment  sprang  u)i,  swelled  out  the  sail,  and  dallied  with  the 
silken  streamer.  For  a  time  I  glided  along  under  steop  umbra- 
geous banks,  or  across  deep  sequestered  bays ;  and  then  stocxl 
out  over  a  wide  expansion  of  the  river  toward  a  high  rocky 
promontory.  It  was  a  lovely  evening ;  the  sun  was  setting  in 
a  congregation  of  clouds  that  threw  the  whole  heavens  in  a  glow, 
and  were  reflected  in  the  river.  I  delighted  myself  with  all 
kinds  of  fantastic  fancies,  as  to  what  enchanted  island,  or  mystic 
bower,  or  necromantic  palace,  1  was  to  be  conveyed  by  the 
fairy  bark. 

In  tlie  revel  of  my  fancy  I  had  not  noticed  that  the  gorgeous 
congregation  of  clouds  which  had  so  much  delighted  me  was  in 
fact  a  gathering  thunder-gust.  I  perceived  the  truth  too  late. 
The  clouds  came  hurrying  on,  darkening  as  they  advanced. 
The  whole  face  of  nature  was  suddenly  changed,  and  assumed 
that  baleful  ari  livid  tint  predictive  of  a  storm.  I  tried  to 
gain  the  shore,  but  before  I  could  reach  it  a  blast  of  wind  struck 
the  water  and  lashed  it  at  once  into  foam.     The  next  moment  it 


overtook  the  boat.     Alas !  I  was 


nothing  of 


a  sailor  ;  and  my 


MOUNT JOY 


19 


protecting  fairy  forsook  me  ia  the  uiomont  of  peril.  I  endeav- 
ored  lu  lower  the  sail ;  but  !n  so  doing  I  had  to  quit  the  helm ; 
lliL'  bark  was  overturned  in  a  instant,  and  I  was  thrown  into  the 
water.  I  endeavored  to  cling  to  tiie  wreck,  hut  missed  my  hold  ; 
iK'ing  a  poorswunmer,  1  soon  found  myself  sinking,  but  grasped 
a  liglit  oar  that  was  floating  by  UiC.  It  was  not  sufficient  for 
my  sui)port ;  I  again  sank  beneath  the  surface  ;  tliere  was  r. 
rushing  and  bubbling  sound  in  my  ears,  and  all  sense  forsook 
Qje. 


How  long  I  remained  insensible,  I  know  not.  1  had  a  eon- 
fused  notion  of  being  moved  and  tossed  about,  and  of  hearing 
strange  beings  and  strange  voices  around  me ;  but  all  was  like 
a  hideous  dream.  Wlien  I  at  length  recovered  full  conscious- 
ness and  perception,  J  found  myself  in  bed  in  a  spacious  chani- 
l)er,  furnished  with  more  taste  than  I  had  been  accustomed  to. 
The  briglit  rays  of  a  morning  sun  were  intercepted  by  curtains  of 
a  delicate  rose  color,  that  gavf*  a  soft,  voluptuous  tinge  to  every 
object.  Not  far  from  my  bed,  on  a  classic  tripod,  was  a  baskei 
of  beautiful  exotic  flowers,  l)reathing  the  sweetest  fragrance. 

'•  Where  am  I?     How  came  1  here?" 

I  tasked  my  mind  to  catch  at  some  i)revious  event,  from 
which  I  migiit  trace  u\)  the  thread  of  existence  to  the  present 
iiionient.  I>y  degrees  1  called  to  mind  the  fairy  pinnace,  my 
during  embarkation,  my  adventurous  voyage,  anil  my  disas- 
trous shipwreck.  lieyond  that,  all  was  chaos.  How  came  I 
here?  What  unknown  region  had  1  landed  upon?  The  people 
that  inhabited  it  must  be  gentle  and  amiable,  and  of  elegant 
tastes,  for  they  loved  downy  beds,  fragrant  flowers,  and  rose- 
colored  curtains. 

While  I  lay  thus  nnising,  the  tones  of  a  harp  reached  my  ear. 
I'resently  they  were  accompanied  by  a  female  voice.  It  came 
from  the  room  below ;  but  in  the  profound  stillness  of  my 
chamber  not  a  modulation  was  lost.  My  sister;  were  all  con- 
sidered good  musicians,  and  sang  very  tolerably  ;  but  I  had 
never  heard  a  voice  like  this.  There  was  no  attempt  at  difli- 
cult  execution,  or  striking  effect ;  but  there  were  exquisite 
inflections,  and  tender  turns,  which  art  could  not  reach. 
Nothing  but  feeling  and  sentiment  could  produce  them.  It 
was  soul  breathed  forth  in  sound.  I  was  always  alive  to  the 
iiilhience  of  music ;  indeed,  I  was  susceptible  of  voluptuous 
influences  of  every  kind  —  sounds,  colors,  shapes,  and  fragrant 
udors.     I  was  the  very  slave  of  seusatiuu. 


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20 


TEE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


I  lay  mute  and  lnvathless,  ami  drank  in  every  note  of  this 
siren  strain.  It  tlinllod  tliroiigli  my  whole  frame,  and  filled 
my  soul  with  melody  and  love.  1  i)ietured  to  myself,  with 
curious  logic,  the  form  of  the  unseen  musician.  Such  melodi- 
ous sounds  and  exquisite  inflections  could  only  be  produced  hy 
organs  of  the  most  delicate  Hexihility.  Such  organs  do  not 
belong  to  coarse,  vulgar  forms  ;  they  are  the  harmonious  results 
of  fair  proportions  and  admirable  symmetry.  A  being  so 
organized  must  be  lovely. 

Again  my  busy  imagination  was  at  work.  I  called  to  nnnd 
the  Arabian  story  of  a  prince,  borne  away  during  sleep  by  a 
good  genius,  to  the  distant  abode  of  a  princess  of  ravishing 
beauty.  J  do  not  pretend  to  say  that  I  believed  in  having 
experienced  a  similar  transportation  ;  but  it  was  my  inveterate 
habit  to  cheat  myself  with  fancies  of  the  kind,  and  to  give  the 
tinge  of  illusioa  to  surrounding  realities. 

The  witching  sound  had  ceased,  but  its  vibrations  still  played 
round  my  heart,  and  filled  it  with  a  tumult  of  soft  emotions. 
At  this  moment,  a  self-upbraiding  pang  shot  through  my  bosom. 
"Ah,  recreant!"  a  voice  seemed  to  exclaim,  'Ms  this  the 
stability  of  thine  alfections?  What!  hast  thou  so  soon  forgot- 
ten the  nymph  of  the  fountain?  Has  one  song,  idly  piped  iu 
thine  ear,  been  suflicient  to  charm  away  the  cherished  tenderness 
of  a  whole  summer?  " 

The  wise  may  smile  —  but  I  am  in  a  confiding  mood,  and 
must  confess  my  weakness.  I  felt  a  degree  of  compunction  at 
this  sudden  infidelity,  yet  I  could  not  resist  the  power  of  present 
fascination.  My  peace  of  mind  was  destroyed  by  conflicting 
claims.  The  nymph  of  the  fountain  came  over  my  memory, 
with  all  the  associations  of  fairy  footsteps,  shady  groves,  soft 
echoes,  and  wild  streamlets  ;  but  this  new  passion  was  produced 
by  a  strain  of  soul-subduing  melody,  still  lingering  in  my  ear, 
aided  by  a  downy  bed,  fragrant  flowers,  and  rose-colored  cur- 
tains. "Unhappy  youth!"  sighed  I  to  myself,  "distracted 
by  such  rival  passions,  and  the  empire  of  thy  heart  thus  vio- 
lently contested  by  the  sound  of  a  voice,  and  the  print  of  a 
footstep!  " 


1  had  not  remained  long  in  this  mood,  when  I  heard  the  door 
of  the  room  gently  opened.  I  turned  my  head  to  see  what 
inhabitant  of  this  enchanted  palace  should  ai)pear ;  whether 
I)age  in  green,  hideous  dwarf,  or  haggard  fairy.  It  was  my 
own  man  Scipio.      He  advanced  with  cautious  step,  and  was 


MOUNT  JOT. 


21 


having 


delighted,  as  he  said,  to  find  me  so  much  myself  again.  My 
first  questions  were  as  to  where  I  was  and  how  I  came  there? 
Scipio  told  me  a  long  story  of  his  having  been  fishing  in  a 
canoe  at  the  time  of  my  hare-brained  cruise ;  of  his  noticing 
the  gathering  squall,  and  my  impending  danger ;  of  his  has- 
tening to  join  me,  but  arriving  just  in  time  to  snatch  me  from 
a  watery  grave ;  of  the  great  difficulty  in  restoring  me  to  ani- 
mation ;  and  of  my  being  subsequently  conveyed,  in  a  state  of 
insensibility,  to  this  mansion. 

"  But  where  am  I?"  was  the  reiterated  demand. 

"  In  the  house  of  Mr.  Somerville." 

"  Somerville — JSomerville  !  "  I  recollected  to  have  heard 
that  a  gentleman  of  that  name  had  recently  taken  up  his  resi- 
dence at  some  distance  from  my  father's  abode,  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  Hudson.  He  was  commonly  known  by  the  name 
of  "  French  Somerville,"  from  havi  i^^  passed  part  of  his  early 
life  in  France,  and  from  his  exhibitiug  traces  of  French  taste  in 
his  mode  of  living,  and  the  arrangements  of  his  house.  In 
fact,  it  was  in  his  pleasure-boat,  which  had  got  adrift,  that  I 
had  made  my  fanciful  and  disastrous  cruise.  All  this  was  sim- 
ple, straightforward  matter  of  fact,  and  threatened  to  demolish 
all  the  cobweb  romance  I  had  been  spinning,  when  fortunately 
I  again  heard  the  tinkling  of  a  harp.  I  raised  myself  in  bed, 
and  listened. 

"  Scipio,"  said  I,  with  some  little  hesitation,  "  I  heard  some 
one  singing  just  now.     Who  was  it?  " 

"  Oh,  that  was  Miss  Julia." 

"Julia!  Julia!  Delightful !  what  a  name !  And,  Scipio  — 
is  she  —  is  she  pretty?  " 

Scipio  grinned  from  ear  to  ear.  "  Except  Miss  Sophy,  she 
was  the  most  beautiful  young  lady  he  had  ever  seen." 

I  should  observe,  that  my  sister  Sophia  was  considered  by 
all  the  servants  a  paragon  of  perfection. 

Scipio  now  bffered  to  remove  the  basket  of  flowers ;  he  was 
afraid  their  odor  might  be  too  powerful ;  but  Miss  Julia  had 
given  them  that  morning  to  be  placed  in  my  room. 

These  flowers,  then,  had  been  gathered  by  the  fairy  fingers 
of  my  unseen  beauty ;  that  sweet  breath  which  had  filled  my 
ear  with  melody  had  passed  over  them.  I  mudt;  Scipio  hand 
thein  to  nie,  culled  several  of  tiie  most  dclieaU',  and  laid  them 
on  my  bosom. 

Mr.  Somerville  paid  me  a  visit  not  long-  afterw.'ird.  He  was 
an  interesting  study  for  me,  for  he  was  the  lutln'r  of  my  unsei'u 
beauty,  anil  iKobubly  resembled  her.     1  scauued  hiiu   closely. 


hi. 


22 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


\      •! 


He  was  a  tall  and  elegant  man,  with  an  open,  affable  manner, 
and  an  erect  and  graceful  carriage.  His  eyes  were  bluish-gray, 
and  though  not  dark,  yet  at  times  were  sparlvling  and  expres- 
sive. His  hair  was  dressed  and  powdered,  and  being  lightly 
combed  up  fi'om  his  forehead,  added  to  the  loftiness  of  his 
aspect.  He  was  fluent  in  discourse,  but  his  conversation  had 
the  quiet  tone  of  polished  society,  witiiout  any  of  those  bold 
flights  of  thought,  and  picturings  of  fancy,  which  1  so  much 
admired. 

My  imagination  was  a  little  puzzled,  at  first,  to  make  out  of 
this  assemblS,ge  of  personal  and  mental  qualities,  a  picture  tliut 
should  harmonize  with  my  previous  idea  of  the  fair  unseen. 
By  dint,  however,  of  selecting  what  it  liked,  and  giving  a  touch 
here  and  a  touch  there,  it  soon  finished  out  a  satisfactory 
portrait. 

"  Julia  must  be  tall,"  thought  I,  "  and  of  exquisite  grace  and 
dignity.  She  is  not  quite  so  courtly  as  her  father,  for  she  has 
been  brought  up  in  the  retirement  of  the  country.  Neither  is 
she  of  such  vivacious  deportment ;  for  the  tones  of  her  voice 
are  soft  and  plaintive,  and  she  loves  pathetic  music.  She  is 
rather  pensive  —  yet  not  too  pensive  ;  just  what  is  called  inter- 
esting. Her  eyes  are  like  her  father's,  except  that  they  are  of 
a  purer  blue,  and  more  tender  and  languishing.  .She  has  light 
hair  —  not  exactly  flaxen,  for  I  do  not  like  flaxen  hair,  liut 
between  that  and  auburn.  In  a  word,  she  is  a  tall,  elegant, 
imposing,  languishing,  blue-eyed,  romantic-looking  beauty." 
And  having  thus  finished  hei-  picture,  1  felt  ten  times  more  in 
love  with  her  than  ever. 


I  felt  so  much  recovered  that  I  would  at  once  have  left  my 
room,  but  Mr.  Somerville  objected  to  it.  He  had  sent  early 
word  to  my  family  of  my  safety  ;  and  my  father  arrived  in  the 
course  of  the  morning.  He  was  shocked  at  learning  the  risk 
1  had  run,  but  rejoiced  to  find  me  so  much  restored,  and  was 
warm  in  his  thanks  to  Mr.  Somerville  for  his  kindness.  The 
other  only  required,  in  return,  that  I  might  remain  two  or  three 
days  as  his  guest,  to  give  time  for  i.iy  recovery,  and  for  oiu' 
forming  a  closer  acquaintance ;  a  request  which  my  father 
readily  granted.  Scipio  accordingly  r:^"()nipanied  my  father 
home,  and  returned  with  a  supply  '  i  clothes,  and  witli  affec- 
tionate letters  from  my  mother  and  sisters. 

The  next  morning,  aided  by  Scipio,  I  made  my  toilet  with 
rather  more  care  than  usual,  and  descended  tlie  st;iirs  with  some 


i>    I 


HOUNTJOY. 


2S 


crcpidatlon,  eager  to  see  the  original  of  the  portrait  which  had 
been  so  completely  pictured  in  i  y  imagination. 

On  entering  the  parlor,  I  found  it  deserted.  Like  the  rest  of 
the  house,  it  was  furnished  in  a  foreign  style.  The  curtains 
were  of  French  silk  ;  there  were  Grecian  couches,  marble  tables, 
pier-glasses,  and  chandeliers.  What  chiefly  attracted  my  eye, 
were  documents  of  female  taste  that  I  saw  around  me  ;  a  piano, 
with  an  ample  stock  of  Italian  music ;  a  book  of  poetry  lying 
on  the  sofa ;  a  vase  of  fresh  flo.vers  on  a  table,  and  a  portfolio 
open  with  a  skilful  and  half-finished  sketch  of  them.  In  the 
window  was  a  canary  bird,  in  a  gilt  cage,  and  near  by,  the  harp 
tliat  had  been  in  Julia's  arms.  Happy  harp  I  Hut  where  was 
the  being  that  reigned  in  this  little  empire  of  delicacies?  —  that 
breathed  poetry  and  song,  and  dwelt  among  birds  and  flowers, 
and  rose-colored  curtains? 

Suddenly  I  heard  the  hall  door  fly  open,  the  quick  pattering 
of  light  steps,  a  wild,  capricious  strain  of  music,  and  the  shrill 
l)arking  of  a  dog.  A  light,  frolic  nymph  of  fifteen  came  trip- 
ping into  the  room,  playing  on  a  flageolet,  with  a  little  spaniel 
romping  after  her.  Her  gypsy  hat  had  fallen  back  upon  her 
shoulders  ;  a  profusion  of  glossy  brown  hair  was  blown  in  rich 
ringlets  about  her  face,  which  beamed  through  them  with  the 
brightness  of  smiles  and  dimples. 

At  sight  of  me  she  stopped  short,  in  the  most  beautiful  con- 
fusion, stammered  out  a  word  or  two  about  looking  for  her 
father,  glided  out  of  the  door,  and  I  heard  hei  bounding  no 
the  staircase,  like  a  frigiitened  fawn,  with  the  little  dog  barking 
after  her. 

When  Miss  Somerville  returned  to  the  parlor,  she  was  quite 
r.  different  being.  IShe  entered,  stealing  along  by  her  mother's 
side  with  noiseless  step,  and  sweet  timidity :  her  hair  was 
prettily  adjusted,  and  a  soft  blush  mantled  on  her  damask 
cheek.  Mr.  Somerville  accompanied  the  ladies,  and  introduced 
me  regularly  to  them.  There  were  many  kind  in(iuiries  and 
much  sympathy  expressed,  on  tl.o  subject  of  my  nautical  acci- 
dent, and  some  remarks  upon  the  wild  scenery  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, with  which  the  ladies  seemed  perfectly  acquainted. 

"  You  must  know,"  said  Mr.  Somerville,  "that  we  are  great 
navigators,  and  delight  in  exploring  every  nook  and  corner  of 
llie  river.  My  daugliter,  too,  is  a  great  hunter  of  the  pictur- 
esque, and  transfers  every  rock  and  glen  to  her  portfolio.  By 
tlie  way,  my  dear,  show  Mr.  Mountjoy  that  pretty  scene  you 
have  lately  sketched."  Julia  complied,  blushing,  and  drew 
from  her  portfolio  a  colored  sketch.     I  almost  started  i»t  the 


1 

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24 


THE  CltATON  PAPERS, 


I      V     . 


[l 


i 

11 

; 

I.        ■ 

4 

t 
i 

I 

- 

sight.  It  was  my  favorite  brook.  A  sudden  thoii2;lit  darted 
across  my  mind.  I  jfiancecl  down  my  eye,  and  l)iilR'ld  tlie 
divini'st  littU'  foot  in  the  world.  Oh,  blissful  conviction!  The 
strujij^le  of  my  affections  was  at  an  end.  The  voice  and 
tlie  footstep  were  no  lonj^er  at  variance.  Julia  .Somcrville  was 
the  nymph  of  the  fountain  ! 


What  conversation  passed  during  breakfast  I  do  not  recollect, 
and  hardly  was  conscious  of  at  the  time,  for  my  thoughts  v/cre 
in  complete  confusion.  I  wished  to  gaze  on  Miss  Somervillc, 
but  did  not  dare.  Once,  indeed,  I  ventured  a  glance.  She  was 
at  that  moment  (Uirting  a  similar  one  from  under  a  covert  of 
ringlets.  Our  eyes  seemed  shocked  by  the  rencontre,  and  fell ; 
hers  through  tiie  natural  modesty  of  her  sex,  mine  through  a 
bashfulness  produced  by  the  previous  workings  of  tny  imagina- 
tion.   That  glance,  however,  went  like  a  sunbeam  to  my  heart. 

A  convenient  mirror  favored  my  dillidence,  and  gave  me  t'lc 
reflection  of  Miss  Somerville's  form.  It  is  true  it  only  presented 
the  back  of  her  head,  but  she  had  the  merit  of  an  ancient 
statue  ;  contemplate  her  from  any  point  of  view,  she  was  beauti- 
ful. And  yet  she  was  totally  different  from  every  thing  I  had 
before  conceived  of  beauty.  She  was  not  the  serene,  medita- 
tive maid  that  I  had  pictured  the  nymph  of  the  fountain  ;  nor 
the  tall,  soft,  languishing,  blue-eyed,  dignilietl  being  that  I  had 
fancied  the  minstrel  of  the  harp.  There  was  nothing  of  dignity 
about  her :  she  was  girlish  in  her  appearance,  and  scarcely  of 
the  middle  size  ;  but  then  there  was  the  temlerness  of  budding 
youth ;  the  sweetness  of  the  half-blown  rose,  when  not  a  tint 
or  perfume  has  been  withered  or  exhaled  ;  there  were  smiles 
and  dimples,  and  all  the  soft  witcheries  of  ever-varying  expres- 
sion. 1  wondered  that  I  could  ever  have  admired  any  other 
style  of  beauty. 

After  breakfast,  Mr.  Somerville  departed  to  attend  to  the 
concerns  of  his  estate,  and  gave  me  in  charge  of  the  ladies. 
Mrs.  Somerville  also  was  called  away  by  household  cares,  and 
I  was  left  alone  with  Julia!  Here,  then,  was  the  situation 
which  of  all  others  I  had  most  coveted.  I  was  in  the  presence 
of  the  lovely  being  that  had  so  long  been  the  desire  of  my 
heart.  We  were  alone;  pro|)ilious  opportunity  for  a  lover! 
Did  I  seize  upon  it?  Did  I  break  out  in  one  of  my  accustomed 
rliapsodies?  No  such  thing  !  Never  was  being  more  awkwardly 
embarrassed. 

"  What  can  be  the  cause  of  this? "  thought  I.     "  Surely,  I 


MOUNT  JOT. 


S5 


darted 


cannot  stand  in  awe  of  this  younpf  girl.  I  am  of  course  her 
superior  in  intellect,  and  am  never  embarrassed  in  company  '*h 
niy  tutor,  notwithstanding  all  liis  wisdom." 

It  was  passing  stiMugc.  1  felt  that  if  she  were  an  old  woman, 
I  should  he  quilt'  at  luy  ease ;  if  she  were  even  an  ugly  woman, 
I  should  maive  out  very  well :  it  was  her  beauty  that  overpowered 
me.  IIow  little  do  lovely  women  know  what  awful  beings  they 
are,  in  the  eyes  of  inexperienced  youth !  Young  men  i)rought 
up  in  the  fashionable  circles  of  our  cities  will  smile  at  all  this. 
Accustomed  to  mingle  incessantly  in  female  society,  and  to  have 
the  romance  of  the  heart  (leadened  by  a  thousand  frivolous  flirta- 
tions, women  are  nothing  but  women  in  their  eyes ;  but  to  a 
susceptible  youth  like  myself,  brought  up  in  the  country,  they 
are  perfect  divinities. 

Miss  Somerville  was  at  firet  a  little  embarrassed  herself  ;  but, 
somehow  or  other,  women  have  a  natural  adroitness  in  recov- 
ering their  self-possession  ;  they  are  more  alert  in  their  minds, 
and  graceful  in  their  manners.  Beside,  I  was  but  an  ordinary 
personage  in  Miss  Somerville's  eyes ;  she  was  not  under  the 
intluenee  of  such  a  singular  course  of  imaginings  as  had  sur- 
rounded her,  in  my  eyes,  with  the  illusions  of  romance.  Per- 
haps, too,  she  saw  the  confusion  in  the  opposite  camp  and 
gained  courage  from  the  discovery.  At  any  rate  she  was  the 
first  to  take  the  field. 

Her  conversation,  however,  was  only  on  common-place  topics, 
and  in  an  easy,  well-bred  style.  I  endeavored  to  respond  in 
the  same  manner;  i)ut  I  was  strangely  incompetent  to  the  task. 
My  ideas  were  frozen  up  ;  even  words  seemed  to  fail  me.  I 
was  excessively  vexed  at  myself,  for  I  wished  to  be  uncommonly 
elegant.  I  tried  two  or  three  times  to  turn  a  pretty  thought, 
or  to  utter  a  fine  sentiment ;  but  it  would  come  forth  so  trite, 
so  forced,  so  mawkish,  that  I  was  ashamed  of  it.  My  very 
voice  sounded  discordantly,  though  I  sought  to  modulate  it  into 
the  softest  tones.  "  Tlie  truth  is,"  thought  I  to  myself, 
"  I  cannot  bring  my  mind  down  to  the  small  talk  necessary 
for  young  girls  ;  it  is  too  masculine  and  robust  for  the  mincing 
measure  of  parlor  gossip.  I  am  a  philosopher  —  and  that 
accounts  for  it." 

The  entrance  of  Mrs.  Somerville  at  length  gave  me  relief.  I 
at  ouce  breathed  freely,  and  felt  a  vast  deal  of  confidence  come 
over  me.  "This  is  strange,"  thought  I,  "that  the  appearance 
of  another  woman  should  revive  my  courage  ;  that  I  should  be 
a  hotter  match  for  two  women  than  one.  However,  since  it  is 
so,  I  will  take  advantage  of  the  circumstance,  and  let  this  young 


i' 


111 

II  Si 


I 


I'  :; 


ri 


[, 


Sd  the  crayon  PAPERfi. 

lady  see  that  T  am  not  so  jrreat  a  simpleton  m  she  proliably 
thinks  me." 

I  accordingly  took  np  the  liook  of  poetry  which  lay  npon  the 
sofa.  It  was  Milton*s  "  Paradise  Lost."  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  fortunate ;  it  afforded  a  fitu*  scope  for  my  favorite 
vein  of  grandiloquence.  I  went  largely  into  a  discussion  of  its 
merits,  or  rather  an  enthusiastic  eulogy  of  them.  My  observa- 
tions were  addressed  to  Mrs.  Somerville,  for  1  found  I  could 
talk  to  her  with  more  ease  than  to  her  daughter.  She  appeared 
alive  to  the  In^auties  of  the  poet,  and  disposed  to  meet  me  in  tlie 
discussion  ;  but  it  was  not  my  object  to  hear  her  talk  ;  it  w;is 
to  talk  myself.  I  anticipated  all  she  had  to  say,  overpowered 
her  with  the  copiousness  of  my  ideas,  and  supi)orted  and  illus- 
trated them  by  long  citations  from  the  author. 

While  thus  holding  forth,  I  eiust  a  side  glance  to  see  how  Miss 
Somerville  was  affected.  She  had  some  embroidery  stretched 
ou  a  frame  before  her,  but  had  paused  in  her  labor,  and  was 
looking  down  as  if  lost  in  unite  atU'iition.  I  felt  a  glow  of  self- 
satisfaction,  but  I  recollected,  at  the  same  time,  with  a  kind  of 
pique,  the  advantage  she  had  enjoyed  over  me  in  our  tete-u-tote. 
I  determined  to  push  my  triumph,  and  accordingly  kept  ou  with 
redoubled  ardor,  until  I  had  fairly  exhausted  my  subject,  or 
rather  my  thoughts. 

1  had  scare*!  come  to  a  full  stoj),  when  Miss  Somerville  raised 
her  eyes  from  the  work  on  which  they  had  l)een  fixed,  and  turn- 
ing to  her  mother,  observed  :  "  I  have  been  considering,  mamma, 
whether  to  work  these  flowers  [)lain,  or  in  colors." 

Had  an  ice-bolt  shot  to  my  heart,  it  could  not  have  chilled  ine 
more  effectually.  "What  a  fool,"  thought  I,  "have  I  been 
making  myself  —  squandering  away  fine  thoughts,  and  fine  lan- 
guage, ui)on  a  light  mind,  and  an  ignorant  ear  !  This  girl  knows 
nothing  of  poetry.  She  has  no  soul,  1  fear,  for  its  beauties. 
Can  any  one  have  rea'  sensibility  of  heart,  and  not  be  alive  to 
poetry?  However,  she  is  young  ;  this  part  of  her  education  has 
been  neglected  :  there  is  time  enough  to  remedy  it.  I  will  be 
her  preceptor.  I  will  kindle  in  her  mind  the  sacred  flame,  and 
lead  her  through  the  fairy  land  of  song.  But  after  all,  it  is 
rather  unfortunate  that  I  should  have  fallen  in  love  with  a  woman 
who  knows  nothing  of  poetry." 


I  passed  a  day  not  altogether  satisfactory.     I  was  a  little  dis- 
appointed that  Miss  Somerville  did  not  show  any  poetical  fael- 


MOV  NT  JOY. 


«r 


Ins.  "  T  am  afraid,  aftor  all,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  she  is  light 
ami  pirlish,  and  more  fitted  to  pluck  wild  flowers,  play  on  the 
flimeoli't,  and  romp  with  little  dogs,  than  to  converse  with  a  man 
of  my  Mirn." 

I  l)elieve,  however,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was  more  out  of  humor 
with  myself.  I  thought  I  had  made  the  worst  first  appearance 
tliiit  ever  hero  made,  either  in  novel  or  fairy  tale.  I  was  out  of 
all  patience,  when  1  called  to  mind  my  awkward  attempts  at 
ease  and  elegance  in  the  tete-d-tete.  Antl  then  my  intolerable 
long  lecture  about  poetry  to  catch  the  applause  of  a  heedless 
auciitor !  But  thert;  1  was  not  to  blame.  I  had  certainly  been 
i'!(»(iuent:  it  was  her  fault  that  the  eloquence  was  wasted.  To 
nu'ditate  upon  the  embroidery  of  a  flower,  when  I  was  expatiat- 
ing on  the  beauties  of  Milton  !  She  might  at  least  have  admired 
tlie  poetry,  if  she  did  not  relish  the  manner  in  which  it  was  de- 
livered :  though  that  was  not  despicable,  for  I  had  recited  pas- 
sages in  my  best  style,  which  my  mother  and  sisters  had  always 
considered  equal  to  a  play.  '-Oh,  it  is  evident,"  thought  I, 
"  Miss  Somerville  has,  very  little  soul !  " 

Such  were  my  fancies  and  cogitations  during  the  day,  the 
greater  part  of  which  was  spent  in  my  chamber,  for  I  was  still 
languid.  My  evening  was  passed  in  the  drawing-room,  where  I 
overlooked  Miss  Somerville's  portfolio  of  sketches. 

They  were  executed  with  great  taste,  and  showed  a  nice  ob- 
servation of  the  peculiarities  of  nature.  They  were  all  her  own, 
:\iid  free  from  those  cunning  tints  and  touches  of  the  drawing- 
iiiMsler,  by  which  young  ladies'  drawings,  like  their  heads,  an; 
dressed  up  for  company.  There  was  no  garish  and  vulgar  trick 
of  colors,  either ;  all  was  executed  with  singular  truth  and  sim- 
l)lieity. 

"  And  yet,"  thought  I,  "  this  little  being,  who  has  so  pure  an 
eye  to  take  in,  as  in  a  limpid  brook,  all  the  graceful  forms  and 
magic  tints  of  nature,  has  no  soul  for  poetry  !  " 

I\Ir.  Somerville,  toward  the  latter  part  of  the  evening,  observ- 
ing my  eye  to  wander  occasionally  to  the  harp,  interpreted  and 
met  my  wishes  with  his  accustomed  civility. 

"  Julia,  my  dear,"  said  he,  "  Mr.  Monntjoy  would  like  to  hear 
a  little  music  from  your  harp ;  let  us  hear,  too,  the  sound  of 
your  voice." 

-lulia  immediately  complied,  without  any  of  that  hesitation 
:ind  difTiculty,  by  which  young  ladies  are  apt  to  make  company 
pay  dear  for  bad  music.  She  sang  a  sprightly  strain,  in  a  bril- 
liant style,  that  came  trilling  playfully  over  the  ear;  and  the 
bright  eye  and  dimpling  smile  showed  that  her  little  heart  danced 


1      i 

'■i'- 

!| 

III 

.1 

1  ,■ 

lur. 


i, 


.   fj , 


I 


n!i 


11 
! 


it.^. 


28 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


with  the  song.  Her  pet  canary  bird,  who  hung  close  by,  was 
wakened  by  the  music,  and  burst  forth  into  an  emulating  strain. 
Julia  smiled  with  a  pretty  air  of  defiance,  and  played  louder. 

After  some  time,  the  music  changed,  and  ran  into  a  plaintive 
strain,  in  a  minor  key.  Then  it  was,  that  all  the  former  wltc'^- 
ery  of  her  voice  came  over  me  ;  then  it  was  that  she  seemed  to 
sing  from  the  heart  and  to  the  heart.  Her  fingers  moved  about 
the  chords  as  if  iliey  scarcely  touched  them.  Her  whole  manner 
and  appearance  changed ;  her  eyes  beamed  with  the  softest 
expression ;  her  countenance,  her  frame,  all  seemed  subdued 
into  tenderness.  She  rose  from  the  harp,  leaving  it  still  vibrat- 
ing with  sweet  sounds,  and  moved  toward  her  father  to  bid  him 
good  night. 

His  eyes  had  been  fixed  on  her  intently,  during  her  perform- 
ance. As  she  came  before  him  he  parted  her  shining  ringlets 
with  both  his  hands,  and  looked  down  with  the  fondness  of  a 
father  on  her  innocent  face.  The  music  seemed  still  lingering 
in  its  lineaments,  and  the  action  of  her  father  brought  a  moist 
gleam  in  her  eye.  He  kissed  her  fair  forehead,  after  the  French 
mode  of  parental  caressing :  ''  Good  night,  and  God  bless  you," 
said  he,  "  my  good  little  girl !  " 

Julia  tripped  away,  with  a  tear  in  her  eye,  a  dimple  in  her 
cheek,  and  a  light  heart  in  her  bosom.  I  thought  it  the  prettiest 
picture  of  paternal  and  filial  affection  I  had  ever  seen. 

When  I  retired  to  bed,  a  new  train  of  thoughts  crowded  into 
my  brain.  "After  all,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  it  is  clear  this  girl 
has  a  soul,  though  she  was  not  moved  by  my  eloquence.  Sue 
has  all  the  outward  signs  and  evidences  of  poetic  feeling.  She 
paints  well,  and  has  an  eye  for  nature.  She  is  a  line  musician, 
and  enters  into  the  very  soul  of  song.  What  a  pity  that  she 
knows  nothing  of  poetry  !  But  we  will  see  what  is  to  be  done. 
I  am  irretrievably  in  love  with  her;  what  then  am  I  to  do? 
Come  down  to  the  level  of  her  mind,  or  endeavor  to  raise  her 
to  some  kind  of  intellectual  equality  with  myself?  That  is  the 
most  generous  course.  She  will  look  up  to  me  as  a  benefactor. 
I  shall  become  associated  in  her  uiuid  with  the  lofty  thoughts 
and  harmonious  graces  ol  pc^^try.  She  is  apparently  docile  : 
beside,  the  difference  of  our  agv's  will  give  me  au  ascendency 
over  her.  She  cannot  be  above  sixteen  ycurs  of  age,  and  I  am 
full  turned  of  twenty."  So,  having  built  this  iuooL  ucicctable  of 
air-castles,  I  fell  asleep. 

The  next  morning  I  was  quite  a  different  being.  I  no  longer 
felt  fearful  of  stealing  a  glance  at  Julia;  ou  the  contrary,  I 


MOUNT  JOY. 


29 


!  by,  was 
ig  strain, 
louder. 

plaintive 
ler  wite'^- 
eemcd  to 
ed  about 
e  manner 
e   softest 

subdued 
ill  vibrat- 
»  bid  him 

perform- 

1  ringlets 
ness  of  a 

lingering 
t  a  moist 
le  Freneh 
ess  you," 

)le  in  her 

2  prettiest 

wded  into 
r  this  girl 
Qce.  Sue 
ing.  She 
musician, 
^  that  she 

be  done. 

I  to  do? 

raise  her 
hat  is  the 
enefactor. 
^  thoughts 
ly  docile: 
scendency 

and  I  am 
cc tabic  of 


no  longer 
)ntrary,  I 


contemplated  her  steadily,  with  the  benignant  eye  of  a  benefac- 
tor. Shortly  after  breakfast  I  found  myself  alone  with  her,  as 
I  had  on  the  preceding  morning  ;  but  I  felt  nothing  of  the  awk- 
wardness of  our  previous  tete-a-tete.  I  was  elevated  by  the 
consciousness  of  my  intellectual  superiority,  and  should  almost 
have  felt  a  sentiment  of  pity  for  the  ignorance  of  the  lovely  little 
being,  if  I  had  not  felt  also  the  assurance  that  I  should  be  able 
to  dispel  it.     "  But  it  is  time,"  thought  I,  "to  open  school." 

Julia  was  occupied  in  arranging  some  music  on  her  piano. 
I  looked  over  two  or  three  songs ;  they  were  Moore's  Irish 
melodies. 

"  These  are  pretty  things !  "  said  I,  flirting  the  leaves  over 
lightly,  and  giving  a  slight  shrug,  by  way  of  qualifying  the 
opinion. 

"Oh,  I  love  them  of  all  things,"  said  Julia,  "they're  so 
touching!  " 

"Then  you  like  them  for  the  poetry,"  said  I  with  an  encour- 
aging smile. 

"Oh  yes  ;  she  thought  them  charmingly  written." 

Now  was  my  time.  "Poetry,"  said  I,  assuming  a  didactic 
attitude  and  air,  "poetry  is  one  of  the  most  pleasing  studies 
that  can  occupy  a  youthful  mind.  It  renders  us  susceptible  of 
the  gentle  impulses  of  humanity,  and  cherishes  a  delicate  per- 
cefttion  of  all  that  is  virtuous  aud  elevated  in  morals,  and  grace- 
ful and  beautiful  in  physics.     It "  — 

I  was  going  on  in  a  style  that  would  have  graced  a  professor 
of  rhetoric,  when  I  saw  a  light  smile  playing  about  Miss  Somer- 
ville's  mouth,  and  that  she  began  to  turn  over  the  leaves  of  a 
i.^usic-book.  I  recollected  her  inattention  to  my  discourse  of 
the  preceding  morning.  "There  is  no  fixing  her  light  mind," 
thought  I,  "by  abstract  theory;  we  will  proceed  practically." 
As  it  happened,  the  identical  volume  of  Milton's  Paradise  Lost 
was  lying  at  hand. 

"Let  me  recommend  to  you,  ny  young  friend,"  said  I,  in 
one  of  those  tones  of  persuasive  admonition,  which  I  had  so 
often  loved  in  Glencoe,  "  let  me  recommend  to  you  this  admir- 
able poem  ;  you  will  find  in  it  sources  of  intellectual  enjoyment 
far  superior  to  those  songs  which  have  delighted  you."  Julia 
looked  at  the  book,  and  then  at  me,  with  a  whimsically  dubious 
air.  "Milton's  Paradise  Lost  ?  "  said  she;  "oh,  I  know  the 
greater  part  of  that  by  heart. ' ' 

I  had  not  expected  to  find  my  pupil  so  far  advanced ;  how- 
over,  the  Paradise  Lost  is  a  kind  of  school-book,  and  its  finest 
passages  are  given  to  young  ladies  as  tasks. 


W'A 


'  » 


iH 


if 

If 

^L 

Kj 

1 

K 

i 

1 

It 

lilliilil 

SIUkb 

L 

fflj 

m 

t 

30 


THE  CRAYON   PAPERS. 


"  I  find,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  I  must  not  treat  her  as  so  com- 
plete a  novice  ;  lier  inattention  yesterday  could  not  have  pro- 
ceeded from  absolute  ignorance,  but  merely  from  a  want  of 
poetic  feeling.    I'll  try  her  again." 

I  now  determined  to  dazzle  her  with  my  own  erudition,  and 
launched  into  a  harangue  that  would  have  done  honor  to  an 
institute.  Pope,  8pen  >or,  Chaucer,  and  the  old  dramatic  writ- 
ers were  all  dipped  into,  .vith  the  excursive  flight  of  a  swallow. 
I  did  not  confine  myself  to  English  ix)ets,  but  gave  a  glance  at 
the  French  and  Italian  schools  ;  I  passed  over  Arios^o  in  full 
wing,  but  paused  on  Tasso's  Jerusalem  Delivered.  I  dwelt 
on  the  character  of  Clorinda:  "There's  a  character,"  said  I, 
"  that  you  will  find  well  worthy  a  woman's  study.  It  shows  to 
what  exalted  heights  of  heroism  the  sex  can  rise,  how  glori- 
ously thry  ma}'  share  even  in  the  stern  concerns  of  men." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Julia,  gently  taking  advantage  of  a 
pause,  "  for  my  part,  I  prefer  the  character  of  Soi)hronia." 

I  was  thunderstruck.  She  then  had  read  Tasso  I  This  jjirl 
that  I  had  been  treating  as  an  ignoramus  in  pott'-y  I  She  i)ro- 
ceeded  with  a  slight  glow  of  the  cheek,  summoned  up  perhaps 
by  a  casual  glow  of  feeling : 

'^  I  do  not  admire  those  masculine  heroines,"  said  she,  "  win 
aim  at  the  bold  qualities  of  the  opposite  sex.  Now  Sophro- 
nia  only  exhibits  the  real  qualities  of  a  woman,  wrought  up  to 
their  highest  excitement.  She  is  modest,  gentle,  and  retiring, 
as  it  becomes  a  woman  to  be  ;  but  she  has  all  the  strength  of 
affection  proper  to  a  woman.  She  cannot  fight  for  her  people 
as  Clorinda  does,  but  she  can  offer  herself  up,  and  die  to  serve 
them.  You  may  admire  Clorinda,  but  you  surely  would  l)c 
more  apt  to  love  Sophronia ;  at  least,"  added  she,  suddenly 
appearing  to  recollect  herself,  and  blushing  at  having  launched 
into  such  a  discussion,  "  at  least  that  is  what  papa  observe<l 
when  we  read  the  jwem  together. ' ' 

"  Indeed,"  said  I,  dryly,  for  I  felt  disconcerted  and  nettled  at 
being  unexpectedly  lectured  by  my  pupil;  "  inteed,  I  do  not 
exactly  recollect  the  passage. ' ' 

*'0h,"  said  Julia,  "  I  can  repeat  it  to  you;"  and  she  im- 
mediately gave  it  in  Italian. 

Heavens  and  earth  !  —  here  was  a  situation  !  I  knew  no  more 
of  Italian  than  I  did  of  the  language  of  Psalmanazar.  What  a 
dilenuna  for  a  would-!)o-wise  man  to  be  placed  in !  I  saw 
Julia  waited  for  my  opinion. 

"  In  fact,"  said  I,  hesitating,  "I  — I  do  not  exactly  under- 
stand Italian." 


MOUNT  JOY. 


31 


80  coin- 
pve   pro- 
want  of 

tion,  and 
)r  to  an 
itic  writ- 
swallow, 
lunce  at 

0  in  full 
I  dwelt 
'  said  I, 

shows  to 
:)w  glori- 

age  of  a 
lia." 
This  girl 
She  pro- 
)  perhapa 

le,  "  win 

Sophro- 

^ht  up  to 

retiring, 

rcngth  of 

er  peo))le 

D  to  servo 

would   ho 

suddenly 

lauiiehed 

observxHl 

nettled  at 

1  do   not 

i  she  im- 

r  no  more 

What  a 

!     I    saw 

tly  under- 


«'  Oh,"  said  Julia,  with  tho  utmost  naivete,  "  I  have  no  doubt 
it  is  very  beautiful  in  the  translation." 

I  was  glad  to  break  up  school,  and  get  back  to  my  chamber, 
full  of  the  mortification  which  a  wise  man  in  love  experiences 
on  finding  his  mistress  wiser  than  himself.  "Translation! 
translation ! ' '  muttered  I  to  myself,  as  I  jerked  the  door  shut 
behind  me:  "  I  am  surprised  my  father  has  never  had  me 
instructed  in  the  modern  languages.  They  are  all-impor^^ant. 
What  is  the  use  of  Latin  and  Greek  ?  No  one  speaks  them ; 
but  here,  the  moment  I  make  my  appearance  in  the  world,  a 
little  girl  slaps  Italian  in  my  face.  However,  thank  heaven, 
a  language  is  easily  learned.  The  moment  I  return  home,  I'll 
set  about  studying  Italian  ;  and  to  prevent  future  surprise,  I 
will  study  Spanish  and  German  at  the  same  time ;  and  if  any 
young  lady  attempts  to  quote  Italian  upon  me  again,  I'll  bury 
her  under  a  heap  of  High  Dutch  poetry !  " 


I  felt  now  like  some  mig^tv  chieftain,  who  has  carried  the 
war  into  a  weak  country,  with  full  confidence  of  success,  and 
been  repulsed  and  obliged  to  draw  off  his  forces  from  before 
some  inconsiderable  fortress. 

"However,"  thought  I,  "I  have  as  yet  brought  only  my 
light  artillery  into  action  ;  we  shall  see  what  is  to  be  done  with 
my  heavy  ordnance.  Julia  is  evidently  well  versed  in  poetry  ; 
but  it  is  natural  she  should  be  so ;  it  is  allied  to  painting  and 
music,  and  is  congenial  to  the  light  graces  of  the  female  char- 
acter.    We  will  try  her  on  graver  themes." 

I  felt  all  my  pride  awakened  ;  it  even  for  a  time  swelled 
higher  than  my  love.  I  was  determined  completely  to  establish 
my  mental  superiority^  and  subdue  the  intellect  of  this  little 
being ;  it  would  then  be  time  to  sway  the  sceptre  of  gentle 
empire,  and  win  the  affections  of  her  heart. 

Accordingly,  at  dinner  I  again  took  the  field,  en  potence.  I 
now  addressed  myself  to  Mr.  Somerville,  for  I  was  about  to 
enter  upon  topics  in  which  a  young  girl  like  her  could  not  be 
well  versed.  I  led,  or  rather  forced,  the  conversation  into  a 
vein  of  historical  erudition,  discussing  several  of  the  most 
prominent  facts  of  ancient  history,  and  accompanying  them 
with  sound,  indisputable  apothegms. 

Mr.  Somerville  listened  to  me  with  the  air  of  a  man  receiv- 
information.     I  was  encourajred,  and  went  on    gloriously 


'■I 


mg 


'rom  theme  to  theme  of  school  declamation.     I  sat  with  jMarius 


!  ■ 


32 


THE  chayon  papers. 


1   'ir 


ps 


i       '1 


.«  !,. 


on  the  ruins  of  Carthage  ;  I  defender!  the  bridge  with  Horatius 
Codes ;  thrust  my  hand  iuto  the  flame  with  Martins  Scaevola, 
and  plunged  with  Curtius  into  the  yawning  gulf ;  I  fought 
side  by  side  with  Leonidas,  at  the  straits  of  Thermopyloe ; 
and  was  going  full  drive  into  the  battle  of  Platrea,  when  my 
memory.,  which  is  the  worst  in  the  world,  failed  nie,  just  as 
I  wanted  the  name  of  the  Lacedaemonian  commander. 

"Julia,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Somerville,  "  perhaps  you  may 
recollect  the  name  of  which  Mr.  Mountjoy  is  in  quest?  " 

Julia  colored  slightly.  "  I  believe,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice, 
*'  I  believe  it  was  Pausanias." 

This  unexpected  sally,  instead  of  re-enforcing  me,  threw  my 
whole  scheme  of  battle  into  confusion,  and  the  Athenians  re- 
mained unmolested  in  the  field. 

I  am  half  inclined,  since,  to  think  Mr.  Somerville  meant  this 
as  a  ply  hit  at  my  school l)Oy  pedantry ;  but  he  was  too  well  bred 
not  to  seek  to  relieve  me  from  my  mortification.  ''  Oh  !  "  said 
he,  "  Julia  is  our  family  lx)ok  of  reference  for  names,  dates, 
and  distances,  and  has  an  excellent  memory  for  history  and 
geography." 

I  now  became  desperate  ;  as  a  last  resource  I  turned  to  meta- 
physics. "If  she  is  a  philosopher  in  petticoats,"  tliougiit  I. 
"it  is  all  over  with  me."  Here,  however,  I  had  tlie  field  to 
myself.  I  gave  chapter  and  verse  of  my  tutor's  'octurcs. 
heightened  by  all  his  poetical  illustrations;  I  even  wont  furtlicr 
than  .le  had  ever  ventured,  and  plunged  irto  such  deptiis  of 
metaphysics,  that  I  was  in  danger  of  sticking  in  the  mire  at  tlic 
bottom.  Fortunately,  I  had  auditors  who  apparently  could  not 
detect  my  flounderings.  Neither  Mr.  Somerville  nor  his 
daughter  offered  the  least  interru})tion. 

When  the  ladies  had  retired,  Mr.  Somerville  sat  some  time 
with  me ;  and  as  I  was  no  longer  anxious  to  astonish,  I  per- 
mitted myself  to  listen,  and  found  that  he  was  really  agreeable. 
He  was  quite  communicative',  and  from  his  conversation  I  was 
enabled  to  form  a  juster  idea  of  his  daughter's  character,  and 
the  mode  a  which  she  had  been  brought  up.  Mr.  Somerville 
had  mingled  much  with  the  world,  and  with  what  is  torinod 
fashionable  society.  He  had  experienced  its  cold  elegancii'S 
and  gay  insinr'crities  ;  its  dissipation  of  tlie  spirits  and  squander- 
ings of  the  heait.  Like  many  men  of  the  world,  though  he  had 
wandered  too  far  from  nature  ever  to  return  to  it,  yet  he  had 
the  good  taste  and  good  feeling  to  look  back  fondly  to  its  simple 
delights,  and  to  determine  that  his  child,  if  possible,  should 
never  leave  them.     He  had  superintended  her  education  with 


"!T 


MOUNT  JOY. 


33 


Horatius 
Sc£evohi, 
I  fought 
rmopyliie ; 
when  my 
},  just  as 

you  may 
» » 

low  voice, 

throw  my 
enians  ve- 

neant  this 
»  well  bred 
:)h!"  said 
fies,  dates, 
istory  and 

d  to  mota- 
thought  1. 
he  field  to 

3     I'X'tUl'CS. 

ent  furllior 
dei)tiis  of 

nire  at  the 
could  not 

e    nor    his 

some  time 

lish,  I  per- 

agreeal)le. 

ution  I  was 

racter,  and 

Sonierville 

is  termed 

elegancies 

1  squander- 

ugh  he  had 

yet  he  had 

0  its  simple 

l)le,   should 

cation  with 


scrupulous  care,  storing  her  mind  with  the  graces  of  polite 
literature,  and  with  such  knowledge  as  would  enable  it  to  fur- 
nish its  own  amusement  and  occupation,  and  giving  her  all  the 
accomplishments  that  sweeten  and  enliven  the  circle  of  domestic 
life.  He  had  been  particularly  sedulous  to  exclude  all  fashion- 
able affectations  ;  all  false  sentiment,  false  sensibility,  and  false 
romance.  "Whatever  advantages  she  may  possess,"  said  he, 
"  she  is  quite  unconscious  of  them.  She  is  a  capricious  little 
being,  in  every  thing  but  her  affections ;  she  is,  however,  free 
from  art ;  simple,  ingenuous,  amiable,  and,  I  thank  God ! 
happy." 

Such  was  the  eulogy  of  a  fond  father,  delivered  with  a  tender- 
ness that  touched  me.  I  could  not  help  making  a  casual  in- 
quiry, whether,  among  the  graces  of  polite  literature,  he  had 
included  a  slight  tincture  of  metaphysics.  He  smiled,  and  told 
me  he  had  not. 

On  the  whole,  when,  as  usual,  that  night,  I  summed  up  the 
day's  observations  on  my  pillow,  I  was  not  altogether  dissatis- 
fied. "  Miss  Somerville,"  said  I,  "  loves  poetry,  and  I  like  her 
the  better  for  it.  She  has  the  advantage  of  me  in  Italian; 
agreed  ;  what  is  it  to  know  a  variety  of  languages,  but  merely 
to  have  a  variety  of  sounds  to  express  the  same  idea?  Original 
thought  is  the  ore  of  the  mind ;  language  is  but  the  accidental 
stamp  and  coinage  by  which  it  is  put  into  circulation.  If  I 
can  furnish  an  original  idea,  what  care  I  how  many  languages 
she  can  translate  it  into?  She  may  be  able  also  to  quote 
names,  and  dates,  and  latitudes  better  than  I ;  but  that  is  a 
mere  effort  of  the  memory.  I  admit  she  is  more  accurate  in 
history  and  geography  than  I ;  but  then  she  knows  nothing  of 
metaphysics." 

I  had  now  sufficiently  recovered  to  return  home  ;  yet  I  could 
not  think  of  leaving  Mr.  Somerville's  without  having  a  little 
further  conversation  with  him  on  the  subject  of  his  daughter's 
education. 

"  This  Mr.  Somerville,"  thought  I,  "  is  a  vcy  accomplished, 
elegant  man  ;  he  has  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world,  and,  upon 
the  whole,  has  profited  by  what  he  has  seen.  He  is  not  without 
information,  and,  as  far  as  he  thinks,  appears  to  think  cor- 
rectly ;  but  after  all,  he  is  rather  sujierficial,  and  does  not  think 
profoundly.  He  seems  to  take  no  delight  in  those;  metaphysi- 
cal abstractions  that  are  the  i)roi)er  aliment  of  masculine 
minds."  I  called  to  mind  various  occasions  in  which  I  had 
indulged  largely  in  metaphysical  discussions,  but  could  recollect 
no  instance  where  I  had  been  able  to  draw  him  out.     He  had 


34 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


'  -M 


1    \ 


w  ■ 


listened,  it  is  tnie,  with  attention,  and  smiled  as  if  in  acquies- 
cence, but  had  always  appeared  to  avoid  reply.  Tx'side,  I  had 
made  several  sad  blunders  in  the  glow  of  eloquent  dechunution  ,• 
but  he  had  never  interrupted  me,  to  notice  and  correct  them,  as 
he  would  have  done  had  he  been  versed  in  the  theme. 

"  Now,  it  is  really  a  great  pity,"  resumed  I,  "•  that  he  should 
have  the  entire  management  of  Miss  Somerville's  education. 
What  a  vast  advantage  it  would  be,  if  she  could  be  put  for  a 
little  time  under  the  superintendence  of  Glencoe.  He  would 
throw  some  deeper  shades  of  thought  into  her  mind,  which  at 
present  is  all  sunshine  ;  not  but  that  Mr.  Somerville  has  done 
very  well,  as  far  as  he  has  gone ;  but  then  he  has  merely  pre- 
pared the  soil  for  the  strong  plants  of  useful  knowledge.  She 
is  well  versed  in  the  leading  facts  of  history,  and  the  general 
course  of  belles-lettres,"  said  1;  "a  little  more  philosophy 
would  do  wonders." 

I  accordingly  took  occasion  to  ask  Mr.  Somerville  for  a  few 
moments'  conversation  in  his  study,  the  morning  1  was  to 
depart.  When  we  were  alone  1  opened  the  matter  fully  to 
him.  I  commenced  with  the  warmest  eulogium  of  Gleucoe's 
powers  of  mind,  and  vast  acquirements,  and  ascribed  to  him 
all  my  proflciency  in  the  higher  branches  of  knowledge.  I 
begged,  therefore,  to  recommend  him  as  a  friend  calculated  to 
direct  the  studies  of  Miss  Somerville  ;  to  lead  her  mind,  l)y 
degrees,  to  the  contemplation  of  abstract  princijjles,  and  to 
produce  habits  of  philosophical  analysis;  "which,"  added  I, 
gently  smiling,  "  are  not  often  cultivated  by  young  ladies."  I 
ventured  to  hint,  in  addition,  that  he  would  tind  Mr.  (ilencoe 
a  most  valuable  and  interesting  acquaintance  for  himself;  one 
who  would  stimulate  and  evolve  the  powers  of  his  mhid  ;  and 
who  might  open  to  him  tracts  of  inquiry  and  speculation,  to 
which  perhaps  he  had  hitherto  been  a  stranger. 

Mr.  Somerville  listened  with  grave  attention.  When  I  had 
finished,  he  thanked  me  in  the  politest  manner  for  the  interest 
I  took  in  the  welfare  of  his  daughter  and  himself.  He  ol)- 
served  that,  as  regarded  himself,  he  was  afraid  he  was  too  old 
to  benefit  by  the  instruction  of  Mr.  Glencoe,  and  that  as  to 
his  daughter,  he  was  afraid  her  mind  was  but  little  fitted  for 
the  study  of  metaphysics.  "  I  do  not  wish,"  continued  he, 
"to  strain  her  intellects  with  sul)jects  they  cannot  grasp,  but 
to  make  her  familiarly  acquainted  with  those  that  are  within 
the  limits  of  her  capacity.  I  do  not  pretend  to  prescrilic  the 
lx)undaries  of  female  genius,  and  am  far  from  indulging  the  vul- 
gar opinion,  that  womea  are  unfitted  by  nature  for  the  highes*. 


MOUNT  JOT. 


35 


acqnies- 
lo,  1  had 
imation  \ 
them,  as 

le  should 
lucation. 
lut  for  a 
[e  would 
which  at 
lias  done 
!rely  pie- 
ge.  She 
i  general 
lilosophy 

'or  a  few 
[  was  to 
•  fully  to 
jlencoe's 
d  to  him 
ledge.  I 
'ulated  to 
mind,  l)y 
5,  and  to 
added  I, 
lies."  I 
Glencoe 
self ;  one 
lind  ;  and 
lation,  to 

en  I  had 
p  interest 
He  ol)- 
as  too  old 
hat  as  to 
fitted  for 
nued   he. 


rasp, 


but 


ire  witliin 
jcrilx'  the 
g  the  vul- 
le  highes*. 


intellectual  pursuits.  T  speak  only  with  reference  to  my 
daughter's  tastes  and  talents.  She  will  never  make  a  learned 
woman  ;  nor,  in  truth,  do  I  desire  it ;  for  such  is  the  jealousy 
of  our  sex,  as  to  mental  as  well  as  physical  ascendency, 
that  a  learned  woman  is  not  always  the  happiest.  I  do 
not  wish  my  daughter  to  excite  envy,  wc^v  to  battle  with  the 
prejudices  of  the  world;  but  to  glide  pcacealdy  through  life, 
on  the  good  will  and  kind  opinion  of  iier  friends.  She  has 
ample  employment  for  her  little  head,  in  the  course  I  have 
marked  out  for  her;  and  is  busy  at  present  with  some  branches 
of  natural  histo  calculated  to  awaken  her  perceptions  to  the 
beauties  and  wonders  of  nature,  and  to  the  inexiiaustible  vol- 
ume of  'visdom  constantly  spread  open  before  her  eyes.  I 
consider  that  woman  most  likely  to  make  an  agreeable  com- 
panion, who  can  draw  topics  of  i)leasing  remark  from  every 
natural  object ;  and  most  likely  to  be  cheerful  and  contented, 
who  is  continually  sensible  of  the  order,  the  harmony,  and  the 
invariable  beneficence,  that  reign  throughout  the  beautiful 
world  we  inhabit." 

'•'•  But,"  added  ho,  smiling,  "  I  am  betraying  myself  into  a 
lecture,  instead  of  merely  giving  a  reply  to  your  kind  offer. 
Permit  me  to  take  the  liberty,  in  return,  of  inquiring  a  little 
al)()ut  your  own  pursuits.  You  speak  of  having  finished  your 
education  ;  but  of  course  you  have  a  line  of  private  study  and 
mental  occupation  marked  out ;  fpr  you  must  know  the  impor- 
tance, both  in  point  of  interest  and  hapinness,  of  keeping  the 
mind  employed.  May  I  ask  what  system  you  observe  in  your 
intellectual  exercises  ?" 

"Oh,  as  to  system,"  I  observed,  "  I  could  never  bring  myself 
into  any  thing  of  the  kind.  I  thought  it  best  to  let  my  genius 
take  its  own  course,  as  it  always  acted  the  most  vigorously  when 
stimulated  by  inclination." 

Mr.  Soniervillo  shook  his  head.  "  This  same  genius,"  said 
he,  "  is  a  wild  quality,  that  runs  away  with  our  most  promising 
young  men.  It  has  become  so  much  the  fashion,  too,  to  give  it 
the  reins,  that  it  is  now  thought  an  animal  of  too  noble  and 
generous  a  nature  to  be  brought  to  harness.  But  it  is  all  a  mis- 
take. Nature  never  designed  these  high  endowments  to  run  riot 
through  society,  and  throw  the  whole  system  into  confusion. 
No,  my  dear  sir,  genius,  unless  it  acts  upon  system,  is  very  apt 
to  he  a  useless  quality  to  society  ;  sometimes  an  injurious,  and 
certainly  a  very  uncomfortable  one,  to  its  possessor.  I  have 
had  many  opportunities  of  seeing  the  progress  through  life  of 
young  men  who  were  accouuted  geniuses,  and  have  found  it  too 


6- 


M 


35 


TEE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


H  ' 


often  end  in  early  exhaustion  and  bitter  disappointment ;  and 
have  as  often  noticed  that  these  effects  might  be  traced  to  a 
total  want  of  system.  There  were  no  habits  of  business,  of 
steady  purpose,  and  regular  application,  superinduced  upon  the 
mind  ;  every  thing  was  left  to  chance  and  impulse,  and  native 
luxuriance,  and  every  tiling  of  course  ran  to  waste  and  wild  en- 
tanglement. Excuse  me  if  I  am  tedious  on  this  noint,  fori  feel 
solicitous  to  impress  it  upon  you,  being  an  error  extremely  prev- 
alent in  our  country  and  o'le  into  which  too  many  of  our  youth 
'lave  fallen.  I  am  happy,  however,  to  observe  the  zeal  which 
still  appears  to  actuate  you  for  the  acjquisition  of  knowledge, 
and  augur  every  good  from  the  elevated  bent  of  your  ambition. 
May  1  ask  what  has  been  your  course  of  study  for  the  last  six 
months?" 

Never  was  question  more  unluckily  timed.  For  the  last  six 
montlis  I  had  l)een  absolutely  buried  in  novels  and  romances. 

Mr.  Somcrville  perceived  that  the  question  was  embarrass- 
ing, and  with  his  invariable  good  breeding,  immediately  re- 
sumed the  conversation  without  waiting  for  a  reply.  He  took 
care,  howevei",  to  turn  it  in  such  a  way  as  to  draw  from  me  an 
account  of  the  whole  manner  in  which  I  had  been  educated, 
and  the  various  currents  of  reading  into  which  my  mind  had 
run.  He  then  went  on  to  discuss,  briefly  but  impressively,  the 
different  branches  of  knowledge  most  important  to  a  young 
man  in  my  situation  ;  and  to  my  surprise  I  found  him  a  complete 
master  of  those  studies  on  which  I  had  supposed  him  ignorant, 
and  on  which  I  had  been  descanting  so  confidently. 

He  complimented  me,  however,  very  graciously,  upon  the 
progress  I  had  made,  but  advised  me  for  the  present  to  turn 
my  attention  to  the  physical  rather  than  the  moral  sciences. 
*' These  studies,"  said  he,  "store  a  man's  mind  with  valuable 
facts,  and  at  the  same  time  repress  self-confidence,  by  letting 
him  know  how  boundless  are  the  realms  of  knowledge,  and  how 
little  we  can  possibly  know.  Whereas  metai)hysical  studies, 
though  of  an  ingenious  order  of  intellectual  eini)loyment,  are  apt 
to  bewilder  some  minds  with  vague  speculations.  They  nevei 
know  how  far  they  have  advanced,  or  wiiat  may  be  the  correct- 
ness of  their  favorite  theory.  They  render  many  of  our  young 
men  verbose  and  declamatory,  and  i)rone  to  mistake  the  aberra« 
tions  of  their  fancy  for  the  inspirations  of  divine  philosophy." 

I  could  not  but  interrupt  him,  to  assent  to  the  truth  of  thes« 
remarks,  and  to  say  that  it  had  been  my  lot,  in  the  course  ol 
my  limited  experience,  to  encounter  young  men  of  the  kind, 
who  had  overwhelmed  me  by  their  verbosity. 


MOV  NT  JOT. 


t1 


Mr.  Romervillo  smiled.  "I  trust,"  said  he,  kindly,  "that 
you  will  guard  against  these  erroi's.  Avoid  the  eagerness  with 
which  a  young  man  is  apt  to  harry  into  conversation,  and  to 
utter  the  crude  and  ill-digested  notions  which  he  has  picked  up 
in  liis  recent  studies.  Be  assured  that  extensive  and  accurate 
knowledge  is  the  slow  acquisition  of  a  studious  lifetime  ;  that  a, 
young  man,  however  pregnant  his  wit,  and  prompt  his  talent, 
can  have  mastered  but  the  rudiments  of  learning,  and,  in  a 
manner,  attained  the  implements  of  study.  Whatever  may 
have  been  your  past  assiduity,  you  must  be  sensible  that  as  yet 
you  have  l)ut  reached  the  threshold  of  ti-ue  knowledge  ;  but  at 
the  same  time,  you  have  the  advantage  that  you  are  still  very 
young,  and  have  ample  time  to  learn." 

Here  our  conference  ended.  I  walked  out  of  the  study,  a  very 
different  being  from  what  1  was  on  entering  it.  I  had  gone  in 
•with  the  air  of  a  professor  about  to  deliver  a  lecture  ;  I  came 
out  like  a  student  who  had  failed  in  his  examination,  and  been 
degraded  in  his  class. 

"Very  young,"  and  "on  the  threshold  of  knowledge"! 
This  was  extremely  flattering,  to  one  who  had  considered  him- 
self an  accomplished  scholar,  and  profound  philosopher. 

"It  is  singular,"  thought  I ;  "there  seems  to  have  been  a 
spell  upon  my  faculties,  ever  since  I  have  \)een  in  this  house. 
I  certainly  have  not  been  able  to  do  myself  justice.  Whenever 
I  have  undertaken  to  advise,  I  have  had  the  tables  turned  upon 
me.  It  must  be  that  I  am  strange  and  dilRdent  among  people 
1  am  not  accustomed  to.  I  wish  they  could  hear  me  talk  at 
home  ! '  * 

"After  all,"  added'  I,  on  further  reflection,  "  after  all,  there 
is  a  great  deal  of  force  in  what  Mr.  Somerville  has  said.  Some- 
how or  other,  these  men  of  the  world  do  now  and  then  hit 
upon  remarks  that  would  do  credit  to  a  philosopher.  Some  of 
his  general  observations  came  so  home,  that  I  almost  thovight 
they  were  meant  for  myself.  His  advice  about  adopting  a 
system  of  study  is  very  judicious.  I  will  immediately  put  it 
in  practice.  5ly  mind  shall  opernte  henceforward  with  the 
regularity  of  clock-work." 

IIow  far  I  succeeded  in  adopting  this  plan,  how  I  fared  in 
the  furtl  or  pursuit  of  knowledge,  and  how  I  succeeded  in  my 
suit  to  Julia  Somerville,  may  afford  matter  for  a  further  com- 
munication to  the  public,  if  this  simple  record  of  my  early  life 
is  fortunate  enough  to  excite  any  curiosity. 


88 


TUE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


•    ' 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI   BUBBLE. 

"A   TIME    OP    UNEXAMPLKD    PROSPERITY." 

In  the  course  of  a  voyage  from  Ehgland,  I  once  fell  in  with 
a  convoy  of  incrcha;it  ships  bound  for  tlie  West  Indies.  Tlie 
went  her  was  uncommonly  bland  ;  and  the  ships  vied  with  each 
other  in  spreading  sail  to  catch  a  light,  favoring  breeze,  until 
their  hulls  were  almost  hidden  beneath  a  cloud  of  canvas. 
The  breeze  went  down  with  the  sun,  and  his  last  yellow  rays 
shone  upon  a  thousand  sails,  idly  flapping  against  the  masts. 

I  exulted  in  the  beauty  of  the  scene,  and  augured  a  pros 
perous  voyage  ;  but  the  veteran  master  of  the  ship  shook  his 
head,  and  pronounced  this  halcyon  calm  a  "  weather  breeder." 
And  so  it  proved.  A  storm  burst  forth  in  the  night ;  the  soa 
roared  and  raged  ;  and  when  the  day  broke,  I  beheld  the  late 
gallant  convoy  scattered  in  every  direction  ;  some  dismasted, 
others  scudding  under  bare  poles,  and  many  firing  signals  of 
distress. 

I  have  since  been  occasionally  reminded  of  this  scene,  hy 
those  calm,  sunny  seasons  in  the  commercial  world,  which  are 
known  by  the  name  of  "times  of  unexampled  prosperity." 
They  are  the  sure  weatlier-breeders  of  traflic.  Every  now  and 
then  the  world  is  visited  by  one  of  these  delusive  seasons,  when 
"the  credit  system,"  as  it  is  called,  expands  to  full  luxuriance, 
everybody  trusts  everybody  ;  a  bad  debt  is  a  thing  unheard  of ; 
the  broad  way  to  certain  and  sudden  wealth  lies  plain  and 
open  ;  and  men  are  tempted  to  dash  forward  boldly,  from  the 
facility  of  borrowing. 

Promissory  notes,  interchanged  between  scheming  indi- 
viduals, are  liberally  discounted  at  the  banks,  which  l)ecoine 
so  many  mints  to  coin  words  into  cash  ;  and  as  the  supply  of 
words  is  inexhaustible,  it  may  readily  be  supposed  what  a  vast 
amount  of  promissory  cap'  ..!  "^  soon  in  circulation.  Every  one 
now  talks  in  thousands ;  ul  '  '  \  is  heard  but  gigantic  opera- 
tions in  trade  ;  great  purchases  and  sales  of  real  property,  and 
immense  sums  made  at  every  transfer.  All,  to  be  sure,  as  yet 
exists  in  promise  ;  but  the  believer  in  promises  calculates  the 
aggregate  as  solid  capital,  and  falls  back  in  amazement  at  the 
amount  v^f  public  wealth,  the  "unexampled  state  of  public 
prosperity."' 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE. 


89 


1  in  with 

The 

ith  each 

ze,  until 

canvas. 

How  raya 

nasts. 

a  pros 
hook  his 
)reoder." 
the  sea 
the  hite 
isniasted, 
ignals  of 

scene,  hy 
vhich  are 
isperity." 
now  and 
>ns,  when 
xuriance, 
leard  of ; 
)lain  and 
from  the 

ng  indi- 
1  lieeoine 
supply  of 
at  a  vast 
livery  one 
ic  opera- 
erty,  and 
re,  as  yet 
ilates  the 
nt  at  the 
)f   public 


Now  is  the  time  for  speculative  and  dreaminfj;  or  designing:; 
men.  They  relate  their  dreams  and  projects  to  the  ignorant 
and  credulous,  dazzle  them  with  golden  visions,  and  set  them 
madding  after  shadows.  The  example  of  one  stimulates  an- 
other;  speculation  rises  on  speculation  ;  bul)l)lc  rises  on  bubble; 
every  one  helps  with  his  breath  to  swell  the  windy  superstruc- 
ture, and  admires  and  wonders  at  the  magnitude  of  the  inflation 
he  has  contributed  to  produce. 

Speculation  is  the  romance  of  trade,  and  casts  contempt  upon 
all  its  sober  realities.  It  renders  the  stock-jobber  a  magician, 
and  the  exchange  a  region  of  enchantment.  It  elevates  the 
merchant  into  a  kind  of  knight-errant,  or  rather  a  connnercial 
t^uixote.  The  slow  but  sure  gains  of  simg  percentage  become 
despicable  in  his  eyes;  no  "  oi)eration  "  is  thought  worthy  of 
attention,  that  does  not  double  or  treble  the  investment.  No 
])usiness  is  worth  following,  that  does  not  promise  an  ii  .mediate 
fortune.  As  he  sits  musing  over  his  ledger,  with  pen  behind 
his  ear,  he  is  like  La  Mancha's  hero  in  his  study,  dreaming 
over  his  books  of  chivalry.  His  dusty  counting-house  fades 
before  his  eyes,  or  changes  into  a  Spanish  mine  ;  he  gropes 
after  diamonds,  or  dives  after  pearls.  The  subterranean  garden 
of  Aladdin  is  nothing  to  the  realms  of  wealth  that  break  upon 
liis  imagination. 

Could  this  delusion  always  last,  the  life  of  a  merchant  would 
indeed  be  a  golden  dream  ;  but  it  is  as  short  as  it  is  brilliant. 
Let  but  a  doubt  enter,  and  the  "season  of  unexampled  pros- 
perity "  is  at  end.  The  coinage  of  words  is  suddenly  curtailed  ; 
the  promissory  cai)ital  begins  to  vanish  into  smoke  ;  a  panic 
succeeds,  and  the  whole  superstructure,  built  upon  credit,  and 
reared  by  speculation,  crumbles  to  the  ground,  leaving  scarce 
a  wreck  behind : 

"  It  la  Huch  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of." 

When  a  man  of  business,  therefore,  hears  on  every  side  rumors 
of  fortunes  suddenly  acquired  ;  when  he  finds  ]>ank3  liberal,  and 
brokers  busy  ;  when  lie  sees  adventurers  flush  of  paper  capital, 
and  full  of  scheme  and  enterprise  ;  when  he  perceives  a  greater 
disposition  to  buy  than  to  sell ;  when  trade  overflows  its  accus- 
tomed channels  and  deluges  the  country ;  when  he  hears  of  new 
regions  of  commercial  adventure ;  of  distant  marts  and  distant 
mines,  swallowing  merchandise  and  disgorging  gold  ;  when  he 
finds  joint  stock  companies  of  all  kinds  forming :  railroads, 
canals,  and  locomotive  engines,  springing  up  on  every  side," 
when  idlers  suddenly  become  men  of  business,  and  dash  into  the 


4U 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


game  of  commerce  as  they  would  into  the  hazards  of  the  faro 
table  ;  when  he  beholds  tlie  streets  <i;litterin<j;  with  now  efiuipaiics, 
palaces  conjured  up  by  the  niajijic  of  s[)('(>ul:iti<>n  ;  tradesmen 
flushed  with  sudden  success,  anil  vyin<j  witii  each  other  in  osten- 
tatious expense  ;  in  a  word,  when  lie  iiears  tiie  whoU'  coniinunity 
joining  in  the  theme  of  'Mniexanipled  prosperity,"  let  hini  look 
upon  the  whole  as  a  "weather-breeder,"  and  prepare  for  the 
impending  storm. 

The  foregoing  remarlis  are  intended  merely  .as  a  prelude  to  a 
narrative  1  am  about  to  hay  before  the  public,  of  one  of  the 
most  memorable  instances  of  the  infatuation  of  gain,  to  be  found 
in  the  whole  history  of  commerce.  I  allude  to  tiie  famous  Mis- 
sissippi  bubble.  It  is  a  matter  that  h.as  p.asscd  into  a  proverb, 
and  become  a  phrase  in  every  one's  mouth,  yet  of  whicli  not  one 
merchant  in  ten  has  probably  a  distinct  idea.  I  have  therefore 
thought  that  an  authentic  account  of  it  would  be  interestinn  and 
salutary,  at  the  present  moment,  when  we  arc  suff<'ring  under 
the  cflFects  of  a  severe  access  of  the  credit  system,  and  just 
recovering  from  one  of  its  ruinous  d-  lusions. 


;  i      * 


Before  entering  into  the  story  of  this  f.amous  chimera,  it  is 
proper  to  give  a  few  particulars  concerning  the  individual  who 
engendered  it.  John  I^aw  was  born  in  Edinburgh  in  1(571.  Ills 
father,  William  Law,  was  a  rich  goldsmith,  and  left  his  son  an 
estate  of  considerable  value,  called  Lauriston,  situated  about 
four  miles  from  Edinburgli.  Goldsmiths,  in  those  days,  acted 
occasionally  as  bankers,  and  his  father's  operations,  under  this 
cha.acter,  may  have  originally  turned  the  thoughts  of  the  youth 
to  the  science  of  calculation,  in  whieii  lie  became  an  adept;  so 
that  at  an  early  age  he  excelled  in  playing  at  all  games  of  com- 
bination. 

In  1G94  he  appeared  in  London,  where  a  handsome  person, 
and  an  easy  and  insinuating  address,  gained  him  currency  in  the 
first  circles,  and  the  nick-name  of  "  IJeau  Law."  The  same 
personal  advantages  gave  him  success  in  the  world  of  gallantry, 
until  he  became  involved  iu  a  quarrel  with  Beau  "Wilson,  his 
rival  in  fashion,  whom  he  killed  in  a  duel,  and  then  fled  to  France, 
to  avoid  prosecution. 

He  returned  to  Edinburgh  in  1700,  and  remained  there  sev- 
eral years  ;  during  which  time  he  first  broached  his  great  credit 
system,  offering  to  supply  the  deficiency  of  coin  by  the  estab- 
lishment of  a  bank,  which,  according  to  his  views,  might  emit 


TBE  GHEAT  MISSISSIPI'I   nUllllLE. 


41 


a  paper  currency,  eciuivalont  to  the  whole  hindecl  estate  of  the 
k.ngdom. 

Ili.s  scheme  excited  p;rcat  astonishment  in  Kdinhjirfjh  ;  imt, 
though  the  governm«Mit  was  not  sutlU-ieiitly  iidvaiu'cd  in  finan- 
cial linowledge  to  (U'tect  tiu'  fallacies  upon  which  it  was  founded, 
Scottish  caution  and  suspicion  hcivcmI  in  tiic  place  of  wisdom, 
and  the  project  was  rejected.  Law  met  with  no  better  success 
with  the  English  Parliament ;  and  the  fatal  affair  of  the  death 
of  Wilson  still  hanging  over  him,  for  which  he  had  never  been 
able  to  procure  a  pardon,  he  again  went  to  France. 

The  financial  affairs  of  France  were  >>t  this  time  in  a  deplor- 
able condition.  The  wars,  the  pomp  and  profusion,  of  Louis 
XIV.,  and  his  religious  persecutions  of  whole  classes  of  the  most 
industrious  of  his  subjects,  had  exhausted  his  treasury,  and  over- 
whelmed the  nation  with  debt.  Tiie  old  monarch  clung  to  his 
selfish  magnificence,  and  could  not  be  induced  to  diminish  liis 
enormous  expenditure  ;  and  his  minister  of  finance  was  driven 
to  his  wits*  end  to  devise  all  kinds  of  disastrous  expedients  to 
keep  up  the  royal  state,  and  to  extricate  the  nation  from  its  em- 
barrassments. 

In  this  state  of  things,  Law  ventured  to  bring  forward  his 
financial  project.  It  was  founded  on  the  plan  of  the  Hank  of 
Kngland,  which  had  already  been  in  successful  operation  several 
years.  He  met  with  immediate  patronage,  and  a  congenial 
spirit,  in  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  who  had  married  a  natural  daugh- 
ter of  the  king.  The  duke  had  been  astonished  at  the  facility 
with  which  England  had  supported  the  burden  of  a  public  debt, 
created  by  the  wars  of  Anne  and  William,  and  which  exceeded 
in  amount  that  under  which  France  was  groaning.  The  yhole 
matter  was  soon  explained  by  Law  to  his  satisfaction.  The 
latter  maintained  that  England  had  stopped  at  the  mere  thresh- 
old of  an  art  capable  of  creating  unlimited  sources  of  national 
wealth.  The  duke  was  dazzled  with  his  splendid  views  and 
specious  reasonings,  and  thought  he  clearly  comprehended  his 
system.  Demarets,  the  Comptroller  General  of  Finance,  was 
not  so  easily  deceived.  He  pronounced  the  plan  of  Law  more 
pernicious  than  any  of  the  disastrous  expedients  that  the  gov- 
ernment had  yet  been  driven  to.  The  old  king  also,  Louis  XIV., 
de^^ested  all  innovations,  especially  those  which  came  from  a 
rival  nation  ;  the  project  of  a  bank,  therefore,  was  utterly  re- 
jected. 

Law  remained  for  a  while  in  Paris,  leading  a  gay  and  affluent 
existence,  owing  to  his  handsome  person,  easy  manners,  flexi- 
ble temper,  and  a  faro- bank  which  he  had  set  up.     His  agree- 


I 


(ill. 


m: 


;1 


il 


v  1 


I.! 


1/ 


I' 


II 


42 


r£r£   CRAYON  rAPERfi. 


able  career  was  interrupted  by  a  message  from  D'Argcnson, 
Lieutenant  General  of  I'olice,  ordering  him  to  quit  Paris,  alle- 
ging that  he  was  "  rather  too  skilful  at  the  game  which  h.  had 
lit  traduced." 

For  several  succeeding  years  he  shifted  his  residence  from 
state  to  state  of  Italy  and  Germany ;  offering  his  scheme  of 
finance  to  every  court  that  he  visited,  but  without  success.  The 
Duke  of  Savoy,  Victor  Amadeus,  afterward  King  of  Sardinia, 
was  much  struck  with  his  project ;  but  after  considering  it  for  a 
time,  replied,  "  I  am  not  sufficiently  poiverful  to  ruin  m>/si'{f." 

The  shifting,  adventurous  life  of  Ltiw,  and  the  equivocal 
means  by  which  he  appeared  to  live,  playing  high,  and  always 
with  great  success,  threw  a  cloud  of  suspicion  over  him.  wher- 
ever he  went,  and  caused  him  to  be  expelled  by  the  magistracy 
from  the  semi-commercial,  semi-aristocratical  cities  of  Venice 
and  Genoa. 

The  events  of  1715  brought  Law  back  again  to  Paris.  Louis 
XIV.  was  dead.  Louis  XV.  was  a  mere  child,  and  during  his 
minority  the  Duke  of  Orleans  held  the  reins  of  government  as 
Regent.     Law  had  at  length  found  his  man. 

The  Duke  of  Orleans  has  been  differently  represented  by 
different  contemporaries.  He  appears  to  have  had  excellent 
natural  qualities,  perverted  by  a  bad  education.  He  wjvs  of 
the  middle  size,  easy  and  graceful,  with  an  agreeable  counte- 
nance, and  open,  affable  demeanor.  His  mind  was  (piick  and 
sagacious,  rather  than  profound  ;  and  his  quickness  of  intel- 
lect, and  excellence  of  memory,  supplied  the  lack  of  studious 
application.  His  wit  was  prompt  and  pungent ;  he  expressed 
himself  with  vivacity  and  precision  ;  Iiis  imagination  was  vivid, 
his  temperament  sanguine  and  joyous ;  his  couragt;  daring. 
His  mother,  the  Duchess  of  Orleans,  expressed  his  cliaracter  in 
a  jeu  d'esprit.  "The  fairies,"  said  she,  "were  invited  to  he 
present  at  his  birth,  and  each  one  conferred  a  talent  on  niv  son  , 
he  possesses  them  all.  Unfortunately,  we  had  forgotten  to  invite 
an  old  fairy,  who,  arriving  after  all  the  others,  exclaimed,  '  lie 
shall  have  all  the  talents,  excepting  that  to  make  a  good  use  of 
them.'  " 

Under  proper  tuition,  the  Duke  might  have  risen  to  real  great- 
ness ;  but  in  his  early  years,  he  was  put  under  the  tutelage  of  the 
Abbe  Dubois,  one  of  the  subtlest  and  hasi-st  spirits  tliat  ever 
intrigued  its  way  into  eminent  place  and  power.  Tiie  AI)ln''  was 
of  low  origin,  and  despicable  exterior,  totally  destitute  of  morals, 
and  perfidious  in  the  extreme  ;  but  with  a  supple,  insinuating 
address,  aud  ^n  accommodating  spirit,  tolerant  uf  all  kiuds  of 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE. 


43 


Louis 


1 


profligacy  in  others.  Conscious  of  his  own  inherent  baseness, 
he  sought  to  secin-e  an  influence  over  his  pupil,  by  corrupting 
his  principU'-s  and  fostering  his  vices  ;  he  debased  him,  to  keep 
himself  from  being  despised.  Unfortunately  he  succeeded.  To 
the  early  precepts  of  tliis  infamous  pander  have  been  attributed 
those  excesses  that  disgraced  the  manhood  of  the  Regent,  and 
g:ive  a  licentious  charactiir  to  his  whole  course  of  government. 
His  love  of  pleasure,  quickened  and  indulged  by  those  who 
should  have  restrained  it,  led  him  into  all  kinds  of  sensual  indul- 
gence. He  had  beesi  taught  to  think  lightly  of  the  most  serious 
duties  and  sacred  ties ;  to  turn  virtue  into  a  jest,  and  consider 
religion  mere  hypocrisy.  He  was  a  gay  misanthrope,  that  had  a 
sovereign  but  sportive  contempt  for  mankind  ;  believed  that  his 
most  devoted  servant  would  be  his  enemy,  if  interest  prompted  ; 
and  maintained  that  an  honest  man  was  he  who  had  the  art  to 
conceal  that  he  was  the  contrary. 

He  surrounded  himself  with  a  set  of  dissolute  men  like  him- 
self; who,  let  loose  from  the  restraint  under  which  they  had 
been  held,  during  the  latter  hypocritical  days  of  Louis  XIV., 
now  gave  way  to  every  kind  of  debauchery.  With  these  men 
the  Regent  used  to  shut  himself  up,  after  the  hours  of  business, 
and  excluding  all  graver  persons  and  graver  concerns,  celebrate 
the  most  drunken  and  disgusting  orgies ;  where  obscenity  and 
blasphemy  formed  the  seasoning  of  conversation.  For  the  prof- 
ligate companions  of  these  revels,  he  invented  the  appellation 
of  his  rones,  the  literal  meaning  of  which  is  men  broken  on  the 
wheel ;  intended,  no  doubt,  to  express  their  broken-down  charac- 
ters and  dislocated  foi'tunes  ;  although  a  contemporary  ass'^rts 
that  it  designated  the  punishment  that  most  of  them  merited. 
Madame  de  Labran,  who  was  present  at  one  of  the  Regent's 
suppers,  was  disgusted  by  the  conduct  and  conversation  of  the 
liost  and  his  guests,  and  observed  at  table,  that  God,  after  he 
had  created  man,  took  the  refuse  clay  that  was  left,  and  made 
of  it  the  souls  of  lackeys  and  princes. 

Sucii  was  the  man  that  now  ruled  the  destinies  of  France. 
Law  found  him  full  of  perplexities,  from  the  disastrous  state 
of  the  finances.  He  had  already  tampered  with  the  coinage, 
calling  in  tlie  coin  of  the  nation,  re-stampnig  it,  and  issuing  it 
at  a  nominal  increase  of  one  fifth  ;  thus  defrauding  the  nation 
out  of  twenty  per  C(!nt  of  its  capital.  He  was  not  likely,  there- 
fore, to  be  scrupulous  about  any  means  likely  to  relieve  him 
from  financial  dilliculties  ;  he  had  even  been  led  to  listen  to  the 
cruel  alternative  of  a  national  bankruptcy. 

Under  these  eircunistauces,  Law  confidently  brought  forward 


u 


' 


Wf 


I' ! 


44 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


i     A 


:  I 


his  scheme  of  a  hank,  that  was  to  pay  off  the  national  debt,  in- 
crease the  revenue,  and  at  the  same  time  diminish  the  taxes. 
The  following  is  stated  as  the  theory  by  which  he  recommended 
his  system  to  the  Regent.  The  credit  enjoyed  by  a  banker  or 
a  merchant,  he  observed,  increases  his  capital  tenfold ;  that  is 
to  say,  he  who  has  a  capital  of  one  hundred  thousand  livres, 
may,  if  he  possess  sufficient  credit,  extend  his  operations  to  a 
million,  and  reap  profits  to  that  amount.  In  like  manner,  a 
state  that  can  collect  into  a  bank  all  the  current  coin  of  the 
kingdom,  would  be  as  powerful  as  if  its  capital  were  increased 
tenfold.  The  specie  must  be  drawn  into  the  bank,  not  by  way 
of  loan,  or  by  taxations,  but  in  the  way  of  deposit.  This  might 
be  effected  in  different  modes,  either  by  inspiring  confidence, 
or  by  exerting  authority.  One  mode,  he  observed,  had  already 
been  in  use.  Each  time  that  a  state  makes  a  re-coinage,  it 
becomes  momentarily  the  depository  of  all  the  money  called  in, 
belonging  to  the  subjects  of  that  state.  His  bank  was  to  effect 
the  same  pur})ose ;  that  is  to  say,  to  receive  in  deposit  all  the 
coin  of  the  kingdom,  but  to  give  in  exchange  its  bills,  which, 
being  of  an  invariable  value,  bearing  an  interest,  and  being  pay- 
able on  demand,  would  not  only  supply  the  place  of  coin,  but 
prove  a  better  and  more  profitable  currency. 

The  Regent  caught  witli  avidity  at  the  scheme.  It  suited  his 
bold,  reckless  spirit,  and  his  grasping  extravagance.  Not  that 
he  was  altogether  the  dupe  of  Law's  specious  projects  ;  still  he 
was  apt,  like  many  other  men,  unskilled  in  tlie  arcana  of  finance, 
to  mistake  the  multiplication  of  money  for  the  multiplication 
of  wealth ;  not  understanding  that  it  was  a  mere  agent  or 
instrumeut  in  the  interchange  of  traffic,  to  represent  the  value 
of  the  various  prodjctions  of  industry  ;  and  that  an  increased 
circulation  of  coin  or  bank  bills,  in  the  shape  of  currency, 
only  adds  a  proportionably  increased  and  fictitious  value  to 
such  protiUctions.  Law  enlisted  the  vanity  of  the  Regent  in 
his  cause.  He  persuaded  him  that  he  saw  more  clearly  tiian 
others  into  suldiine  theories  of  finance,  which  were  quite  above 
tlie  ordinary  api)rehension.  He  used  to  declare  that,  except- 
ing the  Regent  and  the  Duke  of  Savoy,  no  one  had  thoroughly 
comprehended  his  system. 

It  is  certain  that  it  met  with  strong  opposition  from  the 
Regent's  ministers,  the  Duke  de  Noailles  and  the  Chancellor 
d'Anguesseau  ;  and  it  was  no  less  strenuously  opposed  by  the 
Parliament  of  Paris.  Law,  however,  had  a  potent  though 
secret  coadjutor  in  the  Abb(!!  Dubois,  now  rising,  during  the 
regency,  into  great  political  power,  and  who  retained  a  baneful 


THE   GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE. 


45 


Influence  over  the  mind  of  the  Regent.  This  wily  priest,  as 
aviiricious  as  he  was  ambitious,  drew  large  sums  from  Law  as 
subsidies,  and  aided  him  greatly  in  many  of  his  -^ost  pernicious 
operations.  He  aided  him,  in  the  present  instance,  to  fortify 
the  mind  of  the  Regent  against  all  the  remonstrances  of  his 
ministers  and  the  parliament. 

Accordingly,  on  the  2d  of  May,  1716,  letters  patent  were 
granted  to  Law,  to  establish  a  bank  of  deposit,  discount,  and 
circulation,  under  the  firm  of  "  Law  and  Company,"  to  con- 
tinue for  twenty  years.  The  capital  was  fixed  at  six  millions 
of  livres,  divided  into  shares  of  five  hundred  livres  each,  which 
were  to  be  sold  for  twenty-five  per  cent  of  the  regent's  de- 
based coin,  and  seventy-five  per  cent  of  the  public  securities ; 
which  were  then  at  a  great  reduction  from  their  nominal  value, 
and  which  then  amounted  to  nineteen  hundred  millions.  The 
ostensible  object  of  the  bank,  as  set  forth  in  the  patent,  was  to 
encourage  the  commerce  and  manufactures  of  France.  The 
louis-d'ors  and  crowns  of  the  bank  were  always  to  retain  the 
same  standard  of  value,  and  its  bills  to  be  payable  in  them  on 
denii    d. 

At  he  outset,  while  the  bank  was  limited  in  its  operations, 
and  while  its  paper  really  represented  the  specie  in  its  vaults, 
it  seemed  to  realize  all  that  had  been  promised  from  it.  It 
r!ii)idly  acquired  public  confidence,  and  an  extended  circula- 
tion, and  produced  an  activity  in  commerce,  unknown  under  the 
ban<»ful  government  of  Louis  XIV.  As  the  bills  of  the  bank 
bore  an  interest,  and  as  it  was  stipulated  they  would  be  of 
invariable  value,  and  as  hints  had  been  artfully  circulated  that 
the  coin  would  experience  successive  diminution,  everybody 
hastened  to  the  bank  to  exchange  gold  and  silver  for  paper. 
So  great  became  the  throng  of  depositors,  and  so  intense  their 
eagerness,  that  there  was  quite  a  press  and  struggle  at  the  bank 
door,  and  a  ludicrous  panic  was  awakened,  as  if  there  was  dan- 
ger of  their  not  being  admitted.  An  anecdote  of  the  time  re- 
lates that  one  of  the  clerks,  with  an  ominous  smile,  called  out  to 
the  struggling  multitude,  "  Have  a  little  patience,  my  friends; 
we  mean  to  take  all  your  money;  "  an  assertion  disastrously 
verified  in  the  sequel. 

Thus,  by  the  simple  establishment  of  a  bank,  Law  and  the 
Regent  obtained  pledges  of  confidence  for  the  consummation  of 
further  and  more  complicated  schemes,  as  yet  hidden  from  the 
l)ublic.  In  a  little  while,  the  bank  shares  rose  enormously,  and 
the  amount  of  its  notes  in  circulation  exceeded  one  hundred  and 
ten  millions  of  livres.     A  subtle  stroke  of  policy  had  rendered 


■i  , 


Pi   ', 


1 


49 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


'  'in 


»  !     *| 


It  popular  with  the  aristocracy.  Louis  XIV.  had  several  years 
previously  imposed  an  income  tax  of  a  tenth,  giving  his  royal 
word  that  it  should  cease  in  1717.  This  tax  had  been  exceed- 
ingly irksome  to  the  privileged  orders ;  and  in  the  present  dis- 
astrous times  they  had  dreaded  an  augmentation  of  it.  In 
consequence  of  the  successful  operation  of  Law's  scheme,  how- 
ever, the  tax  was  abolished,  and  now  nothing  was  to  be  heard 
among  the  nobility  and  clergy,  but  praises  of  the  Regent  and  the 
bank. 

Hitherto  all  had  gone  well,  and  all  might  have  continued  to 
go  well,  had  not  the  paper  system  been  further  expanded. 
But  Law  had  yet  the  grandest  part  of  his  scheme  to  develop. 
He  had  to  open  his  ideal  world  of  speculation,  his  El  Dorado 
of  unbounded  wealth.  The  English  had  brought  the  vast  im- 
aginary commerce  of  the  South  Seas  in  aid  of  their  banking 
operations.  Law  sought  to  bring,  as  an  immense  auxiliary  of 
his  bank,  the  whole  trade  of  the  Mississippi.  Under  this  name 
was  included  not  merely  the  river  so  called,  but  the  vast  region 
known  as  Louisiana,  extending  from  north  latitude  29°  up  to 
Canada  in  north  latitude  40°.  This  country  had  been  granted 
by  Louis  XIV.  to  the  Sieur  Crozat,  but  he  had  been  induced  to 
resign  his  patent.  In  conformity  to  the  plea  of  Mr.  Law,  letters 
patent  were  granted  in  August,  1717,  for  the  creation  of  a  com- 
mercial company,  which  was  to  have  the  colonizing  of  this 
country,  and  the  monopoly  of  its  trade  and  resources,  and  of 
the  beaver  or  fur  trade  with  Canada.  It  was  called  the  West- 
ern, but  became  better  known  as  the  Mississippi  Company. 
The  capital  was  fixed  at  one  hundred  millions  of  livres,  divided 
into  shares,  bearing  an  interest  of  four  per  ceiit,  which  were 
subscribed  for  in  the  public  securities.  As  the  bank  was  to 
co-operate  with  the  company,  the  Regent  ordered  that  its  bills 
should  be  received  the  same  as  coin,  in  all  payments  of  the 
public  revenue.  Law  was  appointed  chief  director  of  this  com- 
pany, which  was  an  exact  copy  of  the  Earl  of  Oxford's  South 
Sea  Company,  set  on  foot  in  1711,  and  which  distracted  all 
England  with  the  frenzy  of  speculation.  In  like  manner  with 
the  delusive  picturings  given  in  that  memorable  scheme  of  the 
sources  of  rich  trade  to  be  opened  in  the  South  Sea  countries. 
Law  held  forth  magnificent  prospects  of  the  fortunes  to  be 
made  in  colonizing  Louisiana,  which  was  represented  as  a  veri- 
table land  of  promise,  capable  of  yielding  every  variety  of  the 
most  precious  produce.  Reports,  too,  were  artfully  circulated, 
with  great  niystery,  as  if  to  th'.  "  chosen  few,"  of  mines  of 
gold  and  silver    recently    discovered  iu  Louisiana,  and  which 


^ 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE. 


47 


would  insure  instant  wcaltli  to  the  early  purchasers.  These 
confidential  whispers  of  course  soon  became  public  ;  and  were 
confirraed  by  travellers  f»  ^sh  from  the  Mississippi,  and  doubt- 
less bribed,  who  had  seen  ihe  mines  in  question,  and  declared 
them  superior  in  richness  to  those  of  Mexico  and  Peru.  Nay, 
more,  ocular  proof  was  furnished  to  public  credulity,  in  in^^ots 
of  gold  conveyed  to  the  mint,  as  if  just  brought  from  the  mines 
of  Louisian-.i. 

ExtraorJinary  measures  were  adopted  to  force  a  colonization. 
An  edict  was  issued  to  collect  and  transport  settlers  to  the 
Mississippi.  The  police  lent  its  aid.  The  streets  and  prisons 
of  Pariri,  and  of  the  provincial  cities,  were  swept  of  mendicants 
and  vagabonds  of  all  kinds,  who  were  conveyed  to  Havre  de 
Grace.  About  six  thousand  were  crowded  into  ships,  where  no 
precautions  had  been  taken  for  their  health  or  accommodation. 
Instruments  of  all  kinds  proper  for  the  working  of  mines  were 
ostentatiously  paraded  in  public,  and  put  on  board  the  vessels  ; 
and  the  whole  set  sail  for  this  fabled  El  Dorado,  which  was  to 
prove  the  grave  of  the  greater  part  of  its  wn'etched  colonists. 

D'Anguesseau,  the  chancellor,  a  man  of  probity  and  integ- 
rity, still  lifted  his  voice  against  the  paper  system  of  Law,  and 
his  project  of  colonization,  and  was  eloquent  and  prophetic  in 
picturing  the  evils  they  were  calculated  to  produce  ;  the  private 
distress  and  public  degradation  ;  the  corruption  of  morals  ant\ 
manners  ;  the  triumph  of  knaves  and  schemers  ;  the  ruin  of  for- 
tunes, and  downfall  of  families.  He  was  incited  more  and 
more  to  this  opposition  by  the  Duke  de  Noailles,  the  Minister 
of  Finance,  who  was  jealous  of  the  growing  ascendency  of  Law 
over  the  mind  of  the  Regent,  but  was  less  honest  than  the 
chancellor  in  his  opi)osition.  The  Regent  was  excessively  an- 
noyed by  tlie  difllculties  they  conjured  up  in  the  way  of  his 
darling  schemes  of  finance,  and  the  countenance  they  gave  to 
the  opi)osition  of  parliament ;  which  body,  disgusted  more  pnd 
more  with  the  abuses  of  the  regency,  and  the  system  of  Law, 
had  gone  so  far  as  to  carry  its  remonstrances  to  the  very  foot  of 
the  throne. 

He  determined  to  relieve  himself  from  these  two  ministers, 
who,  either  through  honesty  or  policy,  interfered  with  all  his 
plans.  Accordingly,  on  the  28th  of  January,  1718,  he  dis- 
missed the  chancellor  from  ofHce,  and  exiled  him  to  his  estate 
in  the  country ;  and  shortly  afterward  removed  the  Duke  de 
Noailles  from  the  administration  of  the  finances. 

The  opi)()sltion  of  parliament  to  the  Regent  and  his  measures 
was  carried  on  with  incr'^asing  violence.     That  body  aspired 


H 


48 


TUE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


I 


I     ■■ 


I     i 


to  an  equal  authority  with  the  Regent  in  the  administration  of 
affairs,  and  pretended,  by  its  decree,  to  suspend  an  edict  of  the 
regency,  ordering  a  new  coinage  and  altering  the  value  of  the 
currency.  But  its  chief  hostility  was  levelled  against  Lf^w,  a 
foreigner  and  a  heretic,  and  one  who  was  considered  by  a  ma- 
jority  of  the  members  in  the  light  of  a  malefactor.  In  fact,  so 
far  was  this  hostility  carried,  that  secret  measures  were  taken  to 
investigate  his  malversations,  and  to  collect  evidence  against 
him ;  and  it  was  resolved  in  parliament  that,  should  the  testi- 
mony collected  justify  their  suspicions,  they  would  have  hira 
seized  and  brought  before  them  ;  would  give  him  a  brief  trial, 
and  if  convicted,  would  hang  him  in  the  courtyard  of  the  palace, 
and  throw  open  the  gates  after  the  execution,  that  the  public 
might  behold  his  corpse  ! 

Law  received  intimation  of  the  danger  hanging  over  him,  and 
was  in  terrible  trepidation.  He  took  refuge  in  the  Palais  Royal, 
the  residence  of  the  Regent,  and  implored  his  protection.  The 
Regent  himself  was  embarrassed  by  the  sturdy  opposition  of 
parliament,  which  contemplated  nothing  less  than  a  decree  re- 
versing most  of  his  public  measures,  especially  those  of  finance. 
His  indecision  kept  Law  for  a  time  in  an  agony  of  terror  and  sus- 
pense. Finally,  by  assembling  a  board  of  justice,  and  bringing 
to  his  aid  the  absolute  authority  of  the  King,  he  triumphed  over 
parliament  and  relieved  Law  from  his  dread  of  being  hanged. 

The  system  now  went  on  with  flowing  sail.  The  Western  or 
Mississippi  Company,  being  identified  with  the  bank,  rapidly 
increased  u^  power  and  privileges.  One  monopoly  after  au- 
other  was  granted  to  it ;  the  trade  of  the  Indian  seas  ;  the  slave 
trade  with  Senegal  and  Guinea ;  the  farming  of  tobacco ;  the 
national  coinage,  etc.  Each  new  privilege  was  made  a  pretext 
for  issuing  more  bills,  and  caused  an  immense  advance  in  the 
price  of  stock.  At  length,  on  the  4th  of  December,  1718,  the 
Regent  gave  the  establishment  the  imposing  title  of  The  Roval 
Bank,  and  proclaimed  that  he  had  effected  the  purchase  of  all 
the  shares,  the  proceeds  of  which  he  had  added  to  its  capital. 
This  measure  seemed  to  shock  the  public  feeling  more  than  any 
other  connected  with  the  system,  and  roused  the  indignation  of 
parliament.  The  French  nation  had  been  so  accustomed  to 
attach  an  idea  of  every  thing  noble,  lofty,  and  magnificent,  to 
the  royal  name  and  person,  especially  during  the  stately  and 
sumptuous  reign  of  Louis  XIV.,  that  they  could  not  at  first 
tolerate  the  idea  of  royalty  being  in  any  degree  mingled  with 
matters  of  trafldc  and  finance,  and  the  king  being  in  a  manner  a 
banker.     It  was  one  of  the  downward  steps,  however,  by  which 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE. 


49 


ration  of 
ct  of  the 
le  of  the 
t  Lf  w,  a 
by  a  ma- 
I  fact,  so 
!  takeu  to 
e  against 
tlie  testi- 
have  him 
rief  trial, 
le  palace, 
he  public 

him,  and 
lis  Royal, 
ion.  The 
osition  of 
lecree  re- 
)f  finance, 
ir  and  sus- 

brini^ino; 
phed  over 
hanged, 
k^estern  or 
k,  rapidly 

after  au- 
;  the  slave 
»acco ;  the 

a  pretext 
ice  in  the 
,  1718,  the 
^iiE  Royal 
lase  of  all 
its  capital, 
e  than  any 
iornation  of 
stomed  to 
nificent,  to 
stately  and 
lot  at  first 
iui>;led  with 
I  manner  a 
•,  by  whi(.'b 


royalty  lost  its  illusive  splendor  in  France,  and  became  grad- 
ually cheapened  in  the  pjblic  mind. 

Arbitrary  measures  now  began  to  be  taken  to  force  the  bills 
of  the  bank  into  artificial  currency.  On  the  27th  of  December 
appeared  an  order  in  council,  forbidding,  under  severe  penal- 
ties, the  payment  of  any  sum  above  six  hundred  livres  in  gold 
or  silver.  This  decree  rendered  bank  bills  necessary  in  all 
transactions  of  purchase  and  sale,  and  called  for  a  new  emis- 
sion. The  prohibition  was  occasionally  evaded  or  opposed ; 
confiscations  were  the  consequence ;  informers  were  rewarded, 
and  spies  and  traitors  began  to  spring  up  in  all  the  domestic 
walks  of  life. 

The  worst  effect  of  this  illusive  system  was  the  mania  for 
gain,  or  rather  for  gambling  in  stocks,  that  now  seized  upon  the 
whole  nation.  Under  the  exciting  effects  of  lying  reports,  and 
the  forcing  effects  of  government  decrees,  the  shares  of  the 
company  went  on  rising  in  value  until  they  reached  thirteen 
hundred  per  cent.  Nothing  was  now  spoken  of  but  the  price 
of  shares,  and  the  immense  fortunes  suddenly  made  by  lucky 
speculators.  Those  whom  Law  had  deluded  used  every  means 
to  delude  others.  The  most  extravagant  dreams  were  indulged, 
concerning  the  wealth  to  flow  in  upon  the  company  from  its 
colonies,  its  trade,  and  its  various  monopolies.  It  is  true,  noth- 
ing as  yet  had  been  realized,  nor  could  in  some  '^'me  be  realized, 
from  these  distant  sources,  even  if  productive ,  but  the  imagi- 
nations of  speculators  are  ever  in  the  advance,  and  their  con- 
jectures are  immediately  converted  into  facts.  Lying  reports 
now  flew  from  mouth  to  mouth,  of  sure  avenues  to  fortune 
suddenly  thrown  open.  The  more  extravagant  the  fable,  the 
more  readily  was  it  believed.  To  doubt  was  to  awaken  anger, 
or  incur  ridicule.  In  a  time  of  public  infatuation,  it  requires 
no  small  exercise  of  courage  to  doubt  a  popular  fallacy. 

Paris  now  became  the  centre  of  attraction  for  the  adventur- 
ous and  the  avaricious,  who  flocked  to  it,  not  merely  from  the 
provinces,  but  from  neighboring  countries.  A  stock  exchange 
was  established  in  a  house  in  the  Rue  Quincampoix,  and  be- 
came immediately  the  gathering  place  of  stock-jobbers.  The 
exchange  opened  at  seven  o'clock,  with  the  beat  of  drum  and 
sound  of  bell,  and  closed  at  night  with  the  same  signals. 
Guards  were  stationed  at  each  end  of  the  street,  to  maintain 
order,  and  exclude  carriages  and  horses.  The  whole  street 
swarmed  throughout  the  day  like  a  bee-hive.  Bargains  of  all 
lands  wen*  seized  upon  with  avidity.  Shares  of  stock  passed 
♦■rom  hand   to   hand,  mounting  in  value,  one   knew  not  why. 


■ 


hi 


j 


50 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


M\ 


H 


Fortunes  were  made  in  a  moment,  as  if  by  magic ;  and  every 
lucky  bargain  prompted  tliose  around  to  a  more  desperati' 
throw  of  the  die.  Tlie  fever  went  on,  increasing  in  intensity  us 
the  day  declined ;  and  when  the  drum  beat,  and  the  bell  rtiiii:, 
at  night,  to  close  the  exchange,  there  were  exclamations  of  im- 
patience and  despair,  as  if  the  wheel  of  fortune  had  suddeul) 
been  stopped  when  about  to  make  its  luckiest  evolution. 

To  ingulf  all  classes  in  this  ruinous  vortex.  Law  now  split 
the  shares  of  fifty  millions  of  stock  each  into  one  hundred 
shares :  thus,  as  in  the  splitting  of  lottery  tickets,  accoinino- 
dating  the  venture  to  the  humblest  purse.  Society  was  thus 
stirred  up  to  its  very  dregs,  and  adventurers  of  the  lowest  order 
hurried  to  the  stock  market.  All  honest,  industrious  pursuits, 
and  modest  gains,  were  now  despised.  Wealth  was  to  be  ob- 
tained instantly,  without  labor,  and  without  stint.  The  upper 
classes  were  as  base  in  their  venality  as  tlie  lower.  Tiie  hiulutit 
and  most  powerful  nobles,  abandoning  all  generous  pursuits  tuul 
lofty  aims,  engaged  in  the  vile  scuttle  for  gain.  Tliey  were  even 
baser  than  the  lower  classes  ;  for  some  of  them,  who  were  nieiii- 
bers  of  the  council  of  the  regency,  abused  theii  station  and  tlieir 
influence,  and  promoted  measures  by  whicli  shares  arose  wliilo 
in  their  hands,  and  they  made  immense  profits. 

The  Duke  de  Bourbon,  the  Prince  of  Conti,  the  Dukes  dc  la 
Force  and  D'Antin  were  among  the  foremost  of  these  illustrious 
stock-jobbers.  They  were  nicknamed  the  Mississippi  Lords, 
and  they  smiled  at  the  sneering  title.  In  fact,  the  usual  distinc- 
tions of  society  had  lost  their  consequence,  under  the  rei!j;n 
of  this  new  passion.  Rank,  talent,  military  fame,  no  longer 
inspired  deference.  All  respect  for  others,  all  self-respect, 
were  forgotten  in  the  mercenary  struggle  of  the  stock-n)arkot. 
Even  prelates  and  ecclesiastical  corporations,  forgetting  their 
true  objects  of  devotion,  mingled  among  the  votaries  of  Mam- 
mon. They  were  not  behind  those  who  wielded  tne  civil 
power  in  fabricating  ordinances  suited  to  tlieir  avaricious  pur- 
poses. Theological  decisions  forthwith  appeared,  in  which  tiie 
anathema  launciied  by  the  Church  against  usury,  was  cou- 
veniently  construed  as  not  extending  to  tlie  trattlc  in  bank 
shares ! 

The  Abb6  Dubois  entered  into  the  mysteries  of  stock-jobl)ing 
with  all  the  zeal  of  an  apostle,  and  enriclied  himself  by  the 
spoils  of  the  credulous  ;  and  he  continually  drew  large  sums 
from  Law,  as  considerations  for  his  political  influence.  Faith- 
less to  his  country,  in  the  course  of  his  gambling  speculations 
he  transferred  to  England  a  great  aiuouul  of  specie,  which  liaii 


TUE  GREAT  MISSIf,SIPPI  BUBBLE. 


51 


iiul  every 
desperate 
tensity  as 
bell  riiiiLS 
ns  of  iiii- 
suddenly 

D. 

now  split 
hundred 
acconi  mo- 
was  thus 
vest  order 
pursuits, 
to  be  oh- 
"be  upper 
le  liiiiiiest 
rsuits  and 
were  even 
vara  nieni- 
and  tlieir 
rose  while 

ukes  de  la 

illustrious 

)pi   Lords, 

al  distinc- 

tbe   rei<i;n 

no  longer 

If-respeet, 

?k- market. 

tting  their 

of  Main- 

tue    civil 

cious  pur- 

which  the 

was   cou- 

;    in    bank 

ck-jobbing 
elf  by  the 
arge  sums 
;e.  Failli- 
ieeulations 
which  had 


heen  paid  into  the  royal  treasury ;  thus  contributing  to  the  sub- 
.seipient  dearth  of  the  precious  metals. 

The  female  sex  participated  in  this  sordid  frenzy.  Princesses 
of  the  blood,  and  ladies  of  the  highest  nobility,  were  among 
the  most  rapacious  of  stock-jobbers.  The  Regent  seemed  to 
have  the  riches  of  Crtesus  at  his  command,  and  lavished  money 
by  hundreds  of  thousands  upon  his  female  relatives  and  favor- 
ites, as  well  as  upon  his  roues.,  the  dissolute  companions  of  his 
debauches.  "My  son,"  writes  the  Uegent's  mother,  in  her 
corresi)ondence,  "gave  me  shares  to  the  amount  of  two  mil- 
lions, which  I  distributed  among  my  household.  The  King  also 
took  several  millions  for  his  own  household.  Al!  die  royal 
family  have  had  them  ;  all  the  children  and  graudchildreu  of 
France,  and  the  princes  of  the  blood." 

Luxury  and  extravagance  kept  pace  with  this  sudden  infla- 
tion of  fancied  wealth.  The  hereditary  palaces  of  nobles  were 
l)ulled  down,  and  rebuilt  on  a  scale  of  augmented  splendor. 
Entertainments  were  given,  of  incredible  cost  and  magnilicence. 
Never  before  had  been  such  display  in  houses,  furniture,  equi- 
pages, and  amusements.  This  was  particularly  the  case  among 
persons  of  the  lower  ranks,  who  had  sudtleuly  become  possessed 
of  millions.  Ludicrous  anecdotes  are  related  of  some  of  these 
upstarts.  One,  who  had  just  launched  a  splendid  carriage, 
when  about  to  use  it  for  the  first  time,  instead  of  getting  in  at 
the  door,  mounted,  through  habitude,  to  his  accustomed  place 
behind.  Some  ladies  of  quality,  seeing  a  well-dressed  woman 
covered  with  diamonds,  but  whom  nobody  knew,  alight  from  a 
very  handsome  carriage,  inquired  who  she  was  of  the  footman. 
He  replied,  with  a  sneer:  '*  It  is  a  lady  who  has  recently  tum- 
bled from  a  garret  into  this  carriage."  Mr.  Law's  domestics 
were  said  to  become  in  like  nuuiner  suddenly  enriched  by  the 
crumbs  that  fell  from  his  table.  His  coachman,  having  made 
his  fortune,  retired  from  his  service.  Mr.  Law  requested  him 
to  procure  a  coachman  in  his  place.  He  appeared  the  next  day 
with  two,  whom  he  pronounced  equally  good,  and  told  Mr.  Law  : 
"  Take  which  of  them  you  choose,  and  I  will  take  the  other!" 

Nor  were  these  novi  honiini  treated  with  the  distance  and 
disdain  they  would  formerly  have  experienced  from  the  haughty 
aristocracy  of  France.  The  i)ride  of  the  old  noblesse  had  been 
stilled  by  the  stronger  instinct  of  avarice.  They  rather  sought 
the  intimacy  and  confidence  of  these  lucky  upstarts  ;  and  it  has 
been  observed  that  a  nobleman  would  gladly  take  his  seat  at 
t'lc  tal)le  of  the  fortunate  lackey  of  yesterday,  in  hopes  of 
learuiug  from  him  the  seciet  of  growing  rich ! 


1    4 


i     i 


i 

:     ' 

if 

.'     1 

i 

•,i-w-»»M«ii>n«<p<n»i 


52 


THE  CRAYON   PAPERS. 


Law  now  went  about  with  a  countenance  radiant  with  success 
and  apparently  dispensing  wealth  on  every  side.  '■'  He  is  arl- 
mirably  skilled  in  all  that  relates  to  tlnanee,"  writes  tlie  Duehoss 
of  Orleans,  the  Regent's  mother,  "  and  has  put  the  affairs  of 
the  state  in  such  good  order  that  all  the  king's  debts  have  been 
paid.  He  is  so  much  run  after  that  he  has  no  repose  night  or 
day.  A  duchess  even  kissed  his  hand  publicly.  If  a  du(!hes3 
can  do  this,  what  will  other  ladies  do?  " 

Wherever  he  went,  his  path,  we  are  told,  was  beset  l)y  a 
sordid  throng,  who  waited  to  see  him  pass,  and  sought  to  oi)taiii 
the  favor  of  a  word,  a  nod,  or  smile,  as  if  a  mere  glauce  from 
him  would  bestow  fortune.  When  at  home,  his  house  was  ab- 
solutely besieged  by  furious  candidates  for  fortune.  "They 
forced  the  doors,"  says  the  Duke  de  St.  Simon;  "  they  scaled 
his  windows  from  the  garden ;  they  made  their  way  into  hi^ 
cabinet  down  the  chimney  !  ** 

The  same  venal  court  was  paid  by  all  classes  to  his  family. 
The  highest  ladies  of  the  court  vied  with  each  other  in  mean- 
nesses to  purchase  the  lucrative  friendship  of  Mrs.  Law  and  her 
daughter.  They  waited  ui)on  them  with  as  nmch  assiduity  and 
adulation  as  if  they  had  been  princesses  of  the  blood.  Tlie 
Regent  one  day  expressed  a  desire  that  some  duchess  should 
accompany  his  daughter  to  Genoa.  "My  Lord,"  said  some 
one  present,  "if  you  would  have  a  choice  from  among  tiie 
duchesses,  you  need  but  send  to  Mrs.  Law's  ;  you  will  find  them 
all  assembled  there." 

The  wealth  of  Law  rapidly  increased  with  the  expansion  of 
the  bubble.  In  the  course  of  a  few  months  he  purchased  four- 
teen titled  estates,  paying  for  them  in  paper ;  and  the  public 
hailed  these  sudden  and  vast  acquisitions  of  landed  property  as 
so  many  proofs  of  the  soundness  of  his  system.  In  one  in- 
stance he  met  with  a  shrewd  bargainer,  who  had  not  the  general 
faith  in  his  paper  money.  The  President  de  Nov  ion  insisted  ou 
being  paid  for  an  estate  in  hard  coin.  Law  accordingly  brought 
the  amount,  four  hundred  thousand  livres,  in  specie,  saying, 
with  a  sarcastic  smile,  that  he  preferred  paying  in  money  as  its 
'A'eight  rendered  it  a  mere  incumbrance.  As  it  happened,  the 
president  could  give  no  clear  title  to  the  land,  and  the  money 
had  to  be  refunded.  He  paid  it  back  in  paper,  which  Law 
dared  not  refuse,  lest  he  should  depreciate  it  in  the  market. 

The  course  of  illusory  credit  went  on  triumphantly  for  eigh- 
teen months.  Law  had  nearly  fulfilled  one  of  his  promises,  for 
T.ne  greater  part  of  the  public  debt  had  been  paid  off ;  but  how 
paid?    In  bank   shares,  which  had  been  trumped  up  several 


i! 


THE    GREAT   MISSISSIPri    BUBBLE. 


68 


th  succr-ss 
He  is  iui- 
e  DiK'liess 
affairs  of 
liave  iM'on 
e  ni<:;ht  or 
a  duchess 

ic'set  by  a 
t  to  obtain 
lancj  from 
se  was  ab- 
.  ''  Tlioy 
,hey  scaled 
y  into   \n>> 

his  family. 
r  in  mcan- 
nvf  and  her 
siduity  and 
cod.  The 
less  should 
said  some 
among  the 
1  find  them 


pansion  of 
lased  four- 
the  public 
)roperty  as 
In  one  iu- 
the  general 
insisted  ou 
^ly  brought 
:ie,  saying, 
oney  as  its 
)pened,  the 
the  money 
which  Law 
larket. 
[y  for  eigh- 
'oraises,  for 
r ;  but  how 
up  several 


hundred  per  cent  above  their  value,  and  which  were  to  vanish 
like  smoke  in  the  hands  of  the  holders. 

One  of  the  most  striking  attributes  of  Law  was  the  imper- 
turbable assurance  and  self-possession  with  which  he  replied  to 
every  objection,  and  found  a  solution  for  every  problem.  He 
iiad  the  dexterity  of  a  juggler  in  evading  diflflculties ;  and  what 
was  peculiar,  made  figures  themselves,  which  are  the  very  ele- 
ments of  exact  demonstration,  the  means  to  dazzle  and  be- 
wilder. 

Toward  the  latter  end  of  1719  the  Mississippi  scheme  hod 
reached  its  highest  point  of  glory.  Half  a  million  of  strangers 
had  crowded  into  Paris,  in  quest  of  fortune.  The  hotels  and 
lodging-houses  were  overflowing ;  lodgings  were  procured  with 
excessive  difficulty;  granaries  were  turned  into  bedrooms; 
provisions  had  risen  enormously  in  price;  splendid  houses 
were  multiplying  on  every  side ;  the  streets  were  crowded  with 
carriages ;  above  a  thousand  new  equipages  had  been  launched. 

On  the  eleventh  of  December,  Law  obtained  another  prohibi- 
tory decree,  for  the  purpose  of  sweeping  all  the  remaining  specie 
in  circulation  into  the  bank.  By  this  it  was  forbidden  to  make 
any  payment  fn  silver  above  ten  iivres,  or  in  gold  above  three 
hundred. 

The  repeated  decrees  of  this  nature,  the  object  of  which  was 
to  depreciate  the  value  of  gold,  and  increase  the  illusive  credit 
of  paper,  began  to  awaken  doubts  of  a  system  which  required 
such  bolstering.  Capitalists  gradually  awoke  from  their  bewil- 
derment. Sound  and  able  financiers  ousulted  together,  and 
agreed  to  make  common  cause  against  ti.is  continual  expansion 
of  a  paper  system.  The  shares  of  the  bank  and  of  the  company 
began  to  decline  in  value.  Wary  men  took  the  alarm,  and  began 
to  realize,  a  word  now  first  brought  into  use,  to  express  the  con- 
version of  ideal  property  into  something  real. 

The  Prince  of  Conti,  one  of  the  most  prominent  and  grasping 
of  the  Mississippi  lords,  was  the  first  to  give  a  blow  to  the  credit 
of  the  bank.  There  was  a  mixture  of  ingratitude  in  his  conduct 
that  characterized  the  venal  baseness  of  the  times.  He  had 
received  from  time  to  time  enormous  sums  from  Law,  as  the 
price  of  his  influence  and  patronage.  His  avarice  had  increased 
with  every  acquisition,  until  Law  was  compelled  to  refuse  one 
of  his  exactions.  In  revenge  the  i)rince  immediately  sent  such 
an  amount  of  paper  to  the  bank  to  be  cashed,  that  it  required 
four  wagons  to  bring  away  the  silver,  and  he  had  the  meanness 
to  loll  out  of  the  window  of  his  hotel  and  jest  and  exult  as  It 
•vas  tiiiiidled  into  his  port  coch^re. 


'■^i:' 


"111 


i- 


!  ; 


w 


!    '  i 


f'' 


I  i  I 


\4 


i 


I  < 


i. 


h 


•I 


,  1 


■i 


IM 


1 1 


64  THE  CRAYON    PArKftS. 

This  was  the  8i<»;n!il  for  other  drains  of  like  natnro.  The 
F.ii|j;liHh  and  Dutch  merchants,  wlio  had  pnrcliascd  a  f;rc;i(; 
amount  of  hank  paper  at  low  prices,  cashed  tliem  at  the  hank, 
and  carried  tiie  money  out  of  the  country.     Other  strangers  did 


tlie  like,  thus  (lramui<>; 


the  kingdom  uf  its  specie,  and  leavinji 


le  like, 
paper  in  its  place 

The  l{e<j;eni,  perceiving  these  symptoms  of  (h'cay  in  the  sys- 
tern,  sought  to  restore  it  to  pultlic  confidence,  hy  conferring 
marks  of  conlidence  upon  its  author.  lie  accordingly  resolved 
to  make  Lav;  Comptroller  (Jeneral  of  the  I'Mnances  of  France. 
There  was  a  material  obstacle  in  his  way.  Law  was  a  ''roles- 
taut,  and  the  Regent,  uuseruinilous  as  he  was  himself,  did  not 
dare  publicly  to  outrage  the  severe  edicts  which  Louir  XIV'.,  in 
his  bigot  days,  had  fulminated  against  all  heretics.  Law  soon 
let  him  know  that  there  would  be  no  difllculty  on  that  head.  He 
was  ready  at  any  moment  to  abjure  his  religion  in  the  way  of 
business.  For  decency's  sake,  however,  it  was  judged  proper 
Le  should  previously  be  convinced  and  converte<l.  A  ghostly 
instructor  was  soon  found,  ready  to  accomplish  his  conversion 
in  the  shortest  possible  time.  This  was  the  Abbe  Tencin,  a 
profligate  creature  of  the  proflignlc  Dubois,  and  like  him  work- 
ing his  way  to  ecclesiastical  promotion  and  tenii)oral  wealth,  hy 
the  basest  means. 

Under  the  instructions  of  the  Abbe  Tencin,  Law  soon  mas- 
tered the  mysteries  and  dogmtis  of  the  Catholic  doctrine  ;  and, 
after  a  brief  course  of  ghostly  training,  declared  himself  thor- 
oughly convinced  and  converted.  To  avoid  the  sneers  and  jests 
of  the  Parisian  public,  the  ceremony  of  abjuration  took  place  ut 
Mclun.  Law  made  a  pious  present  of  one  hundred  thousand 
livres  to  the  Church  of  St.  Koque,  and  the  Abbe  Tencin  was 
rewarded  for  his  edifying  labors  by  sundry  shares  and  bank 
bills  ;  which  he  shrewdly  took  care  to  convert  into  cash,  having 
as  little  faith  in  the  system  as  in  the  piety  of  his  new  convert. 
A  more  grave  and  moral  community  might  have  been  outraged 
by  this  scandalous  farce;  but  the  Parisians  laughed  at  it  with 
their  usual  levity,  antl  contented  themselves  with  making  it  the 
subject  of  a  number  of  songs  and  epigrams. 

Law  now  being  orthodox  in  his  faith,  took  out  letters  of  nat- 
uralization, and  having  thus  surmounted  the  intervening  o])sta- 
cles,  was  elevated  by  the  Regent  to  the  post  of  Com[)troller 
(jeneral.  So  accustomed  had  the  cijuinumity  become  to  all 
juggles  und  transmutations  in  this  hero  of  (inance,  that  no  one 
seemed  -lio  ked  or  astonished  at  his  sudden  elevation.  On  tlii' 
contra;       t»eing  uuw  considered  perfectly  established  in  place 


u. 


f 


THE  a  UK  AT  MISSIS;SIPPI  liUliBLh 


r>5 


!•('.     The 

ic  Iniiik, 
iificrs  ilid 
I  leaving 

tlio  sys- 
oiifenin;; 

rcsolvocl 

Franco. 

I  I'roU's- 

,  did  not. 

XIV.,  in 
Law  soon 
lead.  lie 
lie  way  of 
L'd  proper 
\  p;liostly 
on  version 
Tencin,  a 
liiin  work- 
health,  by 

soon  mas- 
rinc ;  and, 
isolf  thor- 
i  and  jests 
)k  i)laee  at 
1  thousand 
LVnein  was 
and  bank 
sli,  having 
w  convert, 
n  outrasicd 
at  it  with 
ving  it  the 

2rs  of  nat- 
lini:;  obsta- 
Joniptrollcr 
ome  to  all 
hat  no  one 
II,  On  the 
id  iu  place 


and  power,  be  becanu'  more  than  over  the  object  of  veiml  ;,  U^-a- 
tion.  Men  of  rank  and  dij^nity  thronged  his  antechamber,  wait- 
ing patiently  their  turn  for  an  audience;  and  titled  dames 
donioaned  themselves  to  take  the  front  seats  of  the  carriages  of 
his  wife  and  daughter,  as  if  they  had  been  riding  with  princesses 
of  the  royal  blood.  Law's  head  grew  giddy  with  his  elevation, 
ind  he  began  to  aspire  aft<'r  aristoeratieal  distinction.  There; 
was  to  be  a  court  ball,  at  wh'.-li  several  of  the  young  noblemen 
were  to  dance  in  a  ballet  w'th  the  youthful  King.  Law  requested 
that  his  son  might  Im'  admitted  into  the  ballet,  and  the  Regent 
consented.  The  yoimg  sci<jns  if  nobility,  however,  were  indig- 
nant and  scouted  the  ''  intruding  ui)start."  Their  more  worldly 
parents,  fearful  of  displeasing  the  modern  Midas,  reprimanded 
them  in  vain.  The  striplings  li.ad  not  yet  ind)ibed  the  passion 
for  gain,  and  still  held  to  their  high  blood.  Tiie  son  of  the 
hanker  received  slights  and  annoyances  on  all  sides,  and  th«f 
public  applauded  them  for  their  spirit.  A  lit  of  illness  came 
opportunely  to  relieve  the  youth  from  an  honor  which  would 
have  cost  him  a  world  of  vexations  and  affronts. 

In  February,  1720,  shortly  after  Law's  instalment  in  office,  a 
decree  came  out  uniting  the  bank  to  the  India  Company,  by 
which  last  name  the  whole  establishment  was  now  known.  The 
decree  stated  that  as  the  bank  was  royal,  the  King  was  bound 
to  make  good  the  value  of  its  bills ;  that  he  committed  to  the 
company  the  government  of  the  bank  for  fifty  years,  and  sold 
to  it  fifty  millions  of  stock  belonging  to  him,  for  nine  hundred 
millions  ;  a  simple  advance  of  eighteen  hundred  per  cent.  The 
decree  farther  declared,  in  the  King's  name,  that  he  would  never 
draw  on  the  bank,  until  the  value  of  his  drafts  had  first  been 
lodged  in  it  by  his  receivers  general. 

The  bank,  it  was  said,  had  by  this  time  issued  notes  to  the 
amount  of  one  thousand  millions  ;  being  more  paper  than  all  the 
banks  of  Europe  were  able  to  circulate.  To  aid  its  credit,  the  re- 
ceivers of  the  revenue  were  directed  to  take  bank  notes  of  the 
}ub- receivers.  All  payments,  also,  of  one  hundred  livres  and 
upward  were  ordered  to  be  made  in  bank  notes.  These  com- 
pulsory measures  for  a  short  time  gave  a  false  credit  to  the  bank, 
which  proceeded  to  discount  merchants'  notes,  to  lend  money 
on  jewels,  plate,  and  other  valuables,  as  well  as  on  mortgages. 

Still  farther  to  force  on  the  system  an  edict  next  appeared, 
forbidding  any  individual,  or  any  corporate  body,  civil  or  re- 
ligious, to  hold  in  possession  more  than  five  hundred  livres  in 


I     i: 


;■  t? 


;^ 


•  s 


current  coin  ; 
of  the  louis-d 


that  is  to  say,  about  seven  louis-d'ors  ;  the  value 
paper  being,  at  the  time,  seventy-two  livres. 


r>6 


TUB  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


*       i] 


i 


All  the  gold  and  silver  they  n.ight  have  above  this  pittance  was 
to  be  brought  to  the  royal  bank,  and  exchanged  either  for  shares 
or  bills. 

As  confiscation  was  the  penalty  of  disobedience  to  this  decree, 
and  informers  were  assured  a  share  of  the  forfeitures,  a  bounty 
was  in  a  manner  held  out  to  domestic  spies  and  traitors ;  mikI 
the  most  <;  Hous  scrutiny  was  awakened  into  the  pecuniary  affaim 
of  fan;ilics  and  individuals.  The  very  confidence  between  friends 
and  relativ-s  was  impaired,  and  all  the  domestic  ties  and  virtue- 
of  society  were  tineatened,  until  a  general  sentiment  of  iiwlj^ 
nation  broke  forth,  that  compelled  the  Regent  to  rescind  die 
odious  decree.  Lord  Stairs,  the  Kritisli  ambassador,  speaking 
of  the  system  of  espionage  encouraged  l>y  tliis  edict,  ol)servi'(l 
that  it  was  impossible  to  doubt  tliat  Law  was  a  tliorough  Calh(j- 
lic,  since  he  had  thus  established  the  iuf/i(isilif»i,  after  liaviii!^ 
already  proved  tniiisi(bfitaii(i'a(ion,  by  changing  s[)ecie  into  paper. 

E(p>al  al)uses  had  taken  place  under  tlie  colonizing  project. 
In  his  thousand  expedients  to  amass  capital,  Law  had  soM 
parcels  of  land  in  Mississii)pi,  at  the  rate  of  three  thousand  livres 
for  a  league  square.  Many  cai)italists  had  purchased  estates 
large  enough  to  constitute  almost  a  principality  ;  the  only  evil 
was.  Law  had  sold  a  property  which  lie  could  not  deliver.  The 
agents  of  police,  who  aided  in  recruiting  the  ranks  of  the  colo- 
nists, had  been  guilty  of  scandalous  impositions,  lender  pretenco 
of  taking  uj  mendicants  and  vagabonds,  they  had  scoured  the 
streets  at  night,  seizing  upon  l.jnest  mechanics,  or  their  sons, 
and  hurrying  them  to  their  crimping-houses,  for  the  sole  purpose 
of  extorting  money  from  them  as  a  ransom.  The  iM)pulace  was 
roused  to  indignation  by  these  abuses.  The  officers  of  police 
were  mobbed  in  tlie  exercise  of  their  wlious  functions,  and  sev- 
eral of  them  v/ere  killed  ;  whicii  put  an  end  to  this  flagrant  abuse 
of  power. 

In  March,  a  most  extraordinary  decree  of  the  council  fixed 
the  price  of  shares  of  the  India  Company  at  nine  thousand 
livres  each.  All  ecclesiastical  communities  and  hospitals  were 
now  prohibited  from  investing  money  at  interest,  in  any  tiling 
but  India  stock.  With  all  these  props  and  stays,  the  system 
continued  to  totter.  How  could  it  be  otherwise,  under  a  des- 
potic government,  that  could  alter  the  value  of  property  at 
every  moment?  The  very  compulsory  measures  that  were 
adopted  to  establish  the  credit  of  tiie  bank  hastened  its  full ; 
plainly  showing  there  was  a  want  of  solid  security.  Law 
caused  pamphlets  to  be  pul)lished,  se<tii!j!,'  forth,  in  eloquent 
language,  the  vast  profits  that  must  accrue  to  holdei-s  of  the 


I    f 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUIiBLE. 


67 


nee  WHS 
)r  shares 

i  deeree, 
a  bounl y 
)rs  ;  Mild 
ry  iifT:iiiii 
n  friends 
1  vii'tiies 

[)f    ill'liir. 

leind  liic 

l)e:il<iii'j; 

observed 

I  Catlio 

liaviii<^ 

to  paper. 

project . 

iiad   sold 

ind  livres 

(1  estates 

only  evil 

er.     The 

the  eolo- 

pretenee 

bnred  the 

iieir  sons, 

e  purpose 

ulace  was 

of  poliei! 

and  sev- 

ant  abuse 

neil  fixed 
thousand 
itals  were 
any  thiiii; 
le  system 
er  a  des- 
operty  at 
hat   were 

its  fall; 
y.       Law 

eloquent 
1*8  of  the 


stock,  and  the  impossibility  of  tlie  King's  ever  doing  it  any 
liarm.  On  the  very  back  of  these  assertions  came  forth  an 
ediet  of  the  King,  dated  tlic  22d  of  May,  wherein,  under  pre- 
tence of  liaving  reduced  tlie  value  of  his  coin,  it  was  declared 
necessary  to  reduce  the  value  of  his  bank  notes  one  half,  and 
of  the  India  shares  from  nine  thousand  to  five  thousand  livres. 

This  decre(  came  like  a  clap  of  thunder  upon  shareholders. 
They  found  one  half  of  the  pretended  value  of  the  paper  in 
their  hands  annihilated  in  an  instant ;  and  what  certainty  had 
they  witii  respect  to  the  other  half?  The  rich  considered  them- 
selves ruined  ;  those  in  humbler  circumstances  looked  forward 
to  abject  beggary. 

The  parliament  seized  the  occasion  to  stand  forth  as  the 
protector  of  the  public,  and  refused  to  register  the  decree.  It 
gained  the  credit  of  compelling  the  Regent  to  retrace  his  step, 
though  it  is  more  probable  he  yielded  to  the  universal  burst  of 
|uil)lic  astonishment  and  reprobation.  On  the  27th  of  May  the 
ediet  was  revoked,  and  bank-bills  were  restored  to  their  pre- 
vious value.  But  the  fatal  blow  had  been  struck;  the  delusion 
was  at  an  end.  (Joverument  itself  had  lost  all  public  confi- 
dence, equally  with  the  bank  it  had  engendered,  and  which  its 
own  arbitrary  acts  had  l)rought  into  discredit.  "  All  Paris," 
says  the  Regent's  mother,  in  her  letters,  ''  has  been  mourning 
at  the  cursed  decree  which  Law  has  i)ersuaded  my  son  to  make. 
1  have  received  anonymous  letters,  stating  that  I  have  nothing 
to  fear  on  my  own  account,  but  that  my  son  shall  be  pursued 
with  fire  and  sword." 

The  Regent  now  endeavored  to  avert  the  odium  of  his  ruin- 
ous schemes  from  himself.  lie  affect  'd  to  have  suddenly  lost 
confidence  in  Law,  and  on  the  29th  ot  ?.Tf>y,  discharged  him 
from  his  emi)loy  as  Comptroller  General,  and  stationed  a  Swiss 
guard  of  sixteen  men  in  his  house.  He  even  refused  to  see 
him,  when,  on  the  following  day,  he  applied  at  the  portal  of 
the  Palais  Royal  for  adn)ission  :  but  having  played  off  this 
farce  before  the  i)ublic,  he  admitted  him  secretly  the  same 
night,  by  a  private  door,  and  continued  as  before  to  co-operate 
with  him  in  his  financial  schemes. 

On  the  lirst  of  June,  the  Regent  issued  a  decree,  permitting 
persons  to  have  as  much  money  as  they  pleased  in  their  pos- 
oission.  Few,  however,  were  in  a  state  to  benefit  by  this 
permission  There  was  a  run  upon  the  bank,  but  a  royal 
ordinance  immediately  suspended  payment,  until  farther  orders. 
To  relieve  the  public  mind,  a  city  stock  was  created,  of  twenty- 
tive  millions,  bearing  an  interest  of  two  and  a  half  per  cent, 


^'H\ 


6S 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


:      !■ 


for  which  bank  notes  were  taken  in  exchange.  The  bank  notes 
thus  withdrawn  from  circulation,  were  publicly  burnetl  before 
the  Hotel  de  Villc  '^he  public,  however,  had  lost  confidonce 
in  everything  and  ^vci^iody,  and  suspected  fraud  and  collusion 
in  those  who  pretended  to  burn  the  bills. 

A  general  confusion  now  took  place  in  the  financial  world. 
Families  who  had  lived  in  opulence,  found  themselves  suddenly 
reduced  to  ind'gence.  Schemers  who  had  been  revelling  in  the 
delusion  of  princely  fortune,  found  their  estates  vanishing  into 
thin  air.  Those  who  had  any  property  remaining,  sought  to 
secure  it  against  reverses.  Cautious  pei-sons  found  there  was 
no  safety  for  property  in  a  country  where  the  com  was  continu- 
ally shifting  in  value,  and  where  a  despotism  was  exercised 
over  pulilic  securities,  and  even  over  the  private  purses  of  indi- 
viduals. They  began  to  send  their  effects  into  other  countries ; 
when  lo !  on  the  20th  of  June  a  royal  edict  commanded  them  to 
Oring  back  their  effects,  under  penalty  of  forfeiting  twice  tiieir 
value ;  and  forbade  them,  wncler  like  penalty,  from  investin!j; 
their  money  in  foi-eign  stocks.  This  was  soon  followed  Ijy 
another  decree,  foibidding  any  one  to  retain  precious  stones  in 
his  possession,  or  to  sell  them  to  foreigners ;  all  must  ho 
deposited  in  the  bank,  in  exchange  for  depreciating  paper! 

Execrations  were  now  poured  out  on  all  sides,  against  Law, 
and  menaces  of  vengeance.  What  a  contrast,  in  a  short  time, 
to  the  venal  incense  that  was  offered  up  to  him!  "Tliis  per- 
son," writes  the  Regent's  motiier,  "who  was  formerly  wor- 
shipped as  a  god,  is  now  not  sure  of  his  life.  It  is  astonishing 
how  greatly  territied  he  is.  He  is  as  a  <lead  man  ;  lie  is  pale  as 
a  sheet,  and  it  is  said  he  can  never  get  over  it.  My  son  is 
not  dismayed,  though  he  is  threatened  on  all  sides  ;  and  is  very 
much  amused  with  Law's  terrors." 

Al)out  the  middle  of  July  the  last  grand  attempt  was  made 
by  Law  and  the  Regent,  to  keep  up  the  system,  and  provide  for 
the  innnense  emission  of  pai)er.  A  decret?  was  fabricated,  giv- 
ing the  India  Company-  the  entire  mono[X)ly  of  connnerce,  on 
condition  that  it  would,  in  the  course  of  a  year,  reimburse  six 
hundred  millions  of  livres  of  its  bills,  at  the  rate  of  fifty 
millions  per  month. 

On  the  17th  this  decree  was  sent  to  parliament  to  be  regis- 
tered. It  at  once  raised  a  storm  of  opjwsition  in  that  asseml)l_v  ; 
and  a  vehement  discussion  took  place.  Wiiile  tnat  was  going 
on,  a  disastrous  scene  was  [)assing  out  of  doors. 

The  calamitous  effects  of  the  system  had  reached  the  limn 
blest  coucerus  of  human  life.     Provisions  had  risen  to  an  enor 


ank  notes 

etl  before 

:onfidenoe 

collusion 

ial  world. 

s  suddenly 

ing  in  tlic' 

bing  into 

sought  to 

there  was 

s  continu- 

exereised 

'S  of  indi- 

couutries ; 

1  them  to 

wice  their 

investini; 

lowed   by 

stouos  in 

must  Ito 

iper ! 

iust  Law, 

hort  lime, 

'IMiis  per- 

lerly  wor- 

stonisliing 

is  pale  as 

My  son  is 

.ikI  is  very 

was  made 
•rovide  for 
_!ate(l,  giv- 
mieree,  on 
n burse  six 
e  of   lit'ty 

>  l)e  regis- 
assembiy  ; 
was  going 

.  the  hi'.in 
o  au  eiior 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE. 


69 


mous  price ;  paper  money  was  refused  at  all  the  shops ;  the 
people  had  not  wherewithal  to  buy  bread.  It  had  been  found 
absolutely  indispensable  to  relax  a  little  from  the  suspension  of 
specie  payments,  and  to  allow  small  sums  to  be  scantily  ex- 
changed for  paper.  The  doors  of  the  bank  and  the  neighboring 
streets  were  immediately  thronged  with  a  famishing  multitude, 
seeldng  cash  for  l)ank-notes  of  ten  livres.  So  great  was  the 
press  and  struggle  that  several  persons  were  stifled  and  crushed 
to  death.  The  mob  carried  three  of  the  bodies  to  the  court- 
yard of  the  Palais  Koyal.  Some  cried  for  the  Regent  to  come 
forth  and  l)ehold  the  effect  of  his  system  ;  others  demanded  the 
death  of  Law,  the  impostor,  who  had  brought  this  misery  and 
ruin  upon  the  nation. 

The  moment  was  critical,  the  popular  fury  was  rising  to  a 
tempest,  when  Le  Blanc,  the  Secretary  of  State,  stepped  forth. 
He  had  previously  sent  for  the  military,  and  now  only  sought 
to  gain  time.  Singling  out  six  or  seven  stout  fellows,  who 
seem(;d  to  be  the  ringleaders  of  the  mob :  •••  My  good  fellows," 
said  he,  calmly,  "  carry  away  these  Ixxlies  and  place  them  in 
some  church,  and  then  come  back  quickly  to  me  for  your  pay." 
They  immediately  obeyed ;  a  kind  of  funeral  procession  was 
formed ;  the  arrival  of  troops  disi^ersed  those  who  lingered 
behind  ;  and  Paris  was  probably  saved  from  an  insurrection. 

About  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  all  being  quiet.  Law  ven- 
tured to  go  in  his  carriage  to  the  Palais  Royal.  He  was  saluted 
with  cries  and  curses,  as  he  passed  along  the  streets ;  and  he 
reached  the  Palais  Royal  in  a  terrible  fright.  The  Regent 
amused  himself  with  his  fears,  but  retained  him  with  him,  and 
sent  off  his  carriage,  which  was  assailed  by  the  mob,  pelted  with 
stones,  and  the  glasses  shivered.  The  news  of  this  outrage 
was  communicated  to  parliament  in  the  midst  of  a  furious  dis- 
cussion of  the  decree  for  the  commercial  monopoly.  The  flrst 
president,  who  had  been  absent  for  a  short  time,  re-entered, 
aud  communicated  the  tidings  in  a  whimsical  couplet : 

••  Me«8ieur8,  MesBieure!  bonne  nouvellel 
Le  carroBso  de  Law  est  reduite  en  carrelle!  " 

" Genlle. r.cn,  Gentlemen!  good  news! 
The  carriage  of  Law  is  eliivered  to  atoms  I  " 

The  members  sprang  up  with  joy;  "'And  Law!"  exclaimed 
tliey,  "has  he  been  torn  to  pieces?"  The  president  was  igno- 
rant of  the  result  of  the  tumult ;  whereupon  the  debate  was  cut 
short,  the  deooo  rejected,  and  the  house  adjourned  ;  the  mem- 


:l, 


i'*! 


I  : 


N 


4 


eo 


THX  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


U  V 


1    ;■' 


bers  hurrying  to  learn  the  particulars.  Such  was  the  levity  with 
which  public  affairs  were  treated  at  that  dissolute  and  disastrous 
period. 

On  the  following  day  there  was  an  ordinance  from  tlie  king, 
prohibiting  all  popular  assemblages  ;  and  troops  were  stationed 
at  various  points,  and  in  all  public  places.  The  regiment  o' 
guards  was  ordered  to  hold  itself  in  readiness ;  and  the  musket- 
eers to  be  at  their  hotels,  with  their  horses  ready  saddled.  A 
numljer  of  small  offices  were  opened,  where  people  might  caih 
smrll  notes,  though  with  great  delay  and  difficulty.  An  edict 
was  also  issued  declaring  that  whoever  should  refuse  to  take 
bank-notes  in  the  course  of  trade  should  forfeit  double  the 
amount ! 

The  continued  and  vehement  opposition  of  parliament  to  the 
whole  delusive  system  of  finance,  had  been  a  constant  source 
of  annoyance  to  the  Regent;  but  this  obstinate  rejection  of  his 
last  grand  expedient  of  a  commercial  monopoly,  was  not  to  be 
tolerated.  He  determined  to  punish  that  intractable  body. 
The  Abb6  Dubois  and  Law  suggested  a  simple  mode ;  it  was  to 
suppress  the  parliament  altogether,  being,  as  they  observed,  so 
far  from  useful,  that  it  was  a  constant  impediment  to  the  march 
of  public  affairs.  The  Regent  was  half  inclined  to  listen  to 
their  advice ;  but  upon  calmer  consideration,  and  the  advice  of 
friends,  he  adopted  a  more  moderate  course.  On  the  20th 
of  July,  early  in  the  morning,  all  the  doors  of  the  parliamont- 
house  were  taken  possession  of  by  troops.  Others  were  sent  to 
surround  the  house  of  the  first  president,  and  others  to  the 
houses  of  the  various  members ;  who  were  all  at  first  in  great 
alarm,  until  an  order  from  the  king  was  put  into  their  hands, 
to  render  themselves  at  Pontoise,  in  the  course  of  two  days,  to 
which  place  the  parliament  was  thus  suddenly  and  arbitrarily 
transferred. 

This  despotic  act,  says  Voltaire,  would  at  any  other  time  have 
caused  an  insurrection  ;  but  one  half  of  the  Parisians  were  oc- 
cupied by  their  ruin,  and  the  other  half  by  their  fancied  riches, 
which  were  soon  to  vanish.  The  president  and  members  of 
parliament  acquiesced  in  the  mandate  without  a  murmur ;  tliey 
even  went  as  if  on  a  party  of  pleasure,  and  made  every  prep- 
aration to  lead  p.  .loyous  life  in  their  exile.  The  musketeers, 
who  held  possession  of  the  vacated  parliament-house,  a  gay 
corps  of  fashionable  young  fellows,  amused  themselves  with 
making  songs  and  pasquinades,  at  the  expense  of  the  exiled 
legislators ;  and  at  length,  to  pass  away  time,  formed  them- 
selves into  a  mock  parliament ;  elected  their  presidents,  kings, 


\    \ 


levity  with 
disastrous 

1  the  king, 
e  stationed 
egiment  v* 
he  musket- 
addled.  A 
might  canh 
An  edict 
ise  to  take 
double  the 

mcnt  to  tlie 
tant  source 
ction  of  his 
3  not  to  be 
able  body. 
5 ;  it  was  lo 
bserved,  so 
3  the  march 
to  listen  to 
le  advice  of 
n  the  20th 
parliamcnt- 
(vere  sent  to 
hers  to  the 
rst  in  great 
heir  hands, 
wo  days,  to 
I  arbitrarily 

;r  time  have 
ins  were  oc- 
cied  riches, 
ucmbers  of 
;rmur ;  they 
every  prep- 
musketeers, 
)use,  a  gay 
selves  with 
the  exiled 
mod  them- 
iots,  kings, 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BURBLE. 


61 


ministers,  and  advocates ;  took  their  seats  in  due  form,  ar« 
raigned  a  cat  at  their  bar,  in  place  of  the  Sieur  Law,  and  after 
giving  it  a  "fair  trial,"  condemned  it  to  be  hanged.  In  this 
manner  public  affairs  aud  public  institutions  were  lightly  turned 
to  jest. 

As  to  the  exiled  parliament,  it  lived  gayly  and  luxuriously  at 
Pontoise,  at  the  public  expense ;  for  the  Regent  had  furnished 
funds,  as  usual,  with  a  lavish  hand.  The  first  president  had 
the  mansion  of  the  Duke  de  Bouillon  put  at  his  disposal,  ready 
furnished,  with  a  vast  and  delightful  garden  on  the  borders  of 
a  river.  There  he  kept  open  house  to  all  the  members  of  par- 
liament. Several  tables  were  spread  every  day,  all  furnished 
luxuriously  and  splendidly ;  the  most  exquisite  wines  and 
liquors,  the  choicest  fruits  s>.nd  refreshments,  of  all  kinds, 
abounded.  A  number  of  small  chariots  for  one  and  two  horses 
were  always  at  hand,  for  such  ladies  and  old  gentlemen  as 
wished  to  take  an  airing  after  dinner,  and  card  and  billiard 
tables  for  such  as  chose  to  amuse  themselves  in  that  way  until 
supper.  The  sister  and  the  daughter  of  the  first  president  did 
the  honors  of  the  house,  and  he  himself  presided  there  with  an 
air  of  great  ease,  hospitality,  and  magnificence.  It  became  a 
party  of  pleasure  to  drive  from  Paris  to  Pontoise,  which  was 
six  leagues  distant,  and  partake  of  the  amusements  and  festivi- 
ties of  the  place.  Business  was  openly  slighted  ;  nothing  was 
thought  of  but  amusement.  The  Regent  and  his  government  were 
laughed  at,  and  made  the  subjects  of  continual  pleasantries ; 
while  the  enormous  expenses  incurred  by  this  idle  and  lavish 
course  of  life,  more  than  doubled  the  liberal  sums  provided. 
This  was  the  way  in  which  the  parliament  resented  their  exile. 

During  all  this  time,  the  system  was  getting  more  and  more 
involved.  The  stock  exchange  had  some  time  previously  been 
removed  to  the  Place  Vendome ;  but  the  tumult  and  noise  be- 
coming intolerable  to  the  residents  of  that  polite  quarter,  and 
especially  to  the  chancellor,  whose  hotel  was  there,  the  Prince 
and  Princess  Carignan,  both  deep  gamblers  in  Mississippi  stock, 
offered  the  extensive  garden  of  the  Hotel  de  Soissons  as  a 
rallyiug-placo  for  tiie  worshippers  of  Mammon.  The  offer  was 
accepted.  A  number  of  barracks  were  'n;..vJviiaLcly  erected 
in  the  garden,  as  offices  for  the  stock-brokers,  and  a.i  order 
was  obtained  from  the  Regent,  under  pretext  of  police  regula- 
tions, that  no  bargain  should  be  valid  unless  concluded  in  tliese 
barracks.  The  rent  of  them  immediatoiy  mounted  to  a  hundred 
livres  a  month  for  each,  and  the  whole  yielde.l  these  noble  pro- 
prietors an  ignoble  revenue  of  half  a  n.illion  of  livres. 


IjJ  i 


62 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


Si'  i 


mill 


The  mania  for  gain,  however,  was  now  at  an  end.  A  uni- 
versal panic  succeeded.  ^'- Sauve  qui  pent  I"  was  the  watch- 
word, livery  one  was  anxious  to  exchange  falling  pap«r  for 
something  of  intrinsic  and  permanent  value.  Since  money 
was  not  to  be  had,  jewels,  precious  stones,  plate,  porcelain, 
trinkets  of  gold  and  silver,  all  commajiticd  any  price  in  paper. 
Land  was  bought  at  fifty  years'  purcl)ase,  and  he  esteemed 
himself  happy  who  could  get  it  even  at  this  price.  Monopolies 
now  became  the  rage  among  the  noble  holders  of  paper,  rhe 
Duke  de  la  Force  bought  up  nearly  all  tlie  tallow,  grease,  and 
soap  ;  others  the  coffee  and  spices  ;  others  hay  and  oats.  For- 
eign exchanges  were  almost  impracticable.  The  debts  of  Dutch 
and  English  merchants  were  paid  in  this  fictitious  money,  all 
the  coin  of  the  realm  having  disappeared.  All  the  relations  of 
debtor  and  creditor  were  confounaed.  With  one  thousand 
crowns  one  might  pay  a  debt  of  eighteen  thousand  Uvres ! 

The  Regent's  mother,  who  once  exulted  in  the  affluence  of 
bank  paper,  now  wrote  in  a  very  different  tone  :  "1  have 
often  wished,"  said  she  in  her  letters,  "that  these  banknotes 
were  in  the  depths  of  the  infernal  regions.  They  have  given  my 
son  more  trouble  than  relief.  Nobody  in  France  has  a  penny. 
.  .  My  son  was  once  popular,  but  since  the  arrival  of  tins 
cursed  Law,  he  is  hated  more  and  more.  Not  a  week  pusses, 
without  my  receiving  letters,  filled  with  frightful  ihreats,  and 
speaking  of  him  as  a  tyrant.  1  have  just  received  one  threat- 
ening him  with  poison.  When  1  showed  it  to  him,  he  did  noth- 
ing but  laugh." 

In  the  meantime,  Law  was  dismayed  by  the  increasing 
troubles,  and  terrified  at  the  tempest  he  had  raised.  He  was 
not  a  man  of  real  courage  ;  and  fearing  for  his  personal  safety, 
from  popular  tumult,  or  the  despair  of  ruined  individuals,  he 
again  took  refuge  in  the  palace  of  the  Regent.  The  latter,  as 
usual,  amused  himself  with  his  terrors,  and  turned  every  new 
disaster  into  a  jest ;  but  he  too  began  to  think  of  his  own 
security. 

In  pursuing  the  schemes  of  Law,  he  had  no  doubt  calculated, 
to  carry  through  his  term  of  government  with  ease  and  splendor ; 
and  to  enrich  himself,  his  connections,  and  his  favorites  ;  and 
had  hoped  that  the  catastrophe  of  the  system  would  not  take 
place  until  after  the  expiration  of  the  regency. 

He  now  saw  his  mistake  ;  that  it  was  impossible  much  longer 
to  prevent  an  exposion  ;  and  he  determined  at  once  to  get  Law 
out  of  the  way,  ana  ♦^hen  to  charge  him  with  the  whole  tissue  of 
delusions  of  this  paper  alchemy.     He  accordingly  took  occasion 


nigc 


vena 

which 

of  th 

blarai 

iects. 

left 

gone 

it  wa 

it  was 

coul( 

vault 


THE  GREAT  MISSISSIPPI  BUBBLE. 


63 


A  uni- 
he  watch- 
paper  for 
CO    money 
porcelain, 
in  pajjcr. 
esteemed 
ilonopoiies 
ipcr.     The 
rease,  and 
»ats.     For- 
ts of  Dutch 
money,  all 
elaLions  of 
thousand 
vres ! 

itllucuce  of 

"  1  have 

bank  notes 

:e  given  my 

18  a  penny. 

ival  of  this 

ek  pusses, 

breats,  and 

(.i;e  threat- 

ie  did  noth- 

increasing 
i.  lit'  was 
onal  safety, 
ividuak,  he 
le  lattiir,  as 
I  eveiy  new 
of  his   own 

i  calculated, 
id  splendor; 
:orites ;  and 
lid  not  take 

much  longer 
i  to  get  Law 
lole  tissue  of 
jok  occasion 


\ 


of  the  recall  of  parliament  in  December,  1720,  to  suggest  to 
IjSW  the  policy  of  his  avoiding  an  encounter  with  that  hostile 
and  exasperated  body.  Law  needed  no  urging  to  the  measure. 
His  only  desire  was  to  escape  from  Paris  and  its  tempestuous 
populace.  Two  days  before  the  return  of  parliament  he  took 
his  sudden  and  secret  departure.  He  travelled  in  a  chaise  bear- 
ing the  aims  of  the  Regent,  and  was  escorted  by  a  kind  of  safe- 
guard of  servants,  in  the  duke's  livery.  His  first  place  of 
refuge  was  an  estate  of  the  Regent's,  about  six  leagues  from 
Paris,  from  whence  he  pushed  forward  to  Bruxelles. 

As  soon  as  Law  was  fairly  out  of  the  way,  the  Duke  of  Or^ 
leans  summoned  a  council  of  the  regency,  and  informed  them 
that  they  were  assembled  to  deliberate  on  the  state  of  the 
finances,  and  the  affairs  of  the  India  Company.  Accordingly 
La  Houssaye,  Comptroller  General,  i-endered  a  perfectly  clear 
statement,  by  which  it  appeared  that  there  were  bank  bills  in 
circulation  to  the  amount  of  two  milliards,  seven  hundred  mil- 
lions of  livves,  without  any  evidence  that  this  enormous  sum 
had  been  emitted  in  virtue  of  any  ordinance  from  the  general 
assembly  of  the  India  Company,  which  alone  had  the  right  to 
authorize  such  emissions. 

The  council  was  astonished  at  this  disclosure,  and  looked  to 
the  Regent  for  explanation.  Pushed  to  the  extreme,  the  Regent 
avowed  that  Law  had  emitted  bills  to  the  amount  of  twelve 
hundred  millions  beyond  what  had  been  fixed  by  ordinances, 
and  in  contradiction  to  express  prohibitions ;  that  the  thing  be- 
ing done,  he,  the  Regent,  had  legalized  or  rather  covered  the 
transaction,  by  decrees  ordering  such  emissions,  which  decrees 
he  had  antedated. 

A  stormy  scene  ensued  between  the  Regent  and  the  Duke  de 
Bourl)on,  little  to  the  credit  of  either,  both  having  been  deeply 
implicated  in  the  cabalistic  operations  of  the  system.  In  facty 
the  several  members  o^'  the  council  had  been  among  the  most 
venal  "  beneficiaries  "  of  the  scheme,  and  had  interests  at  stake) 
which  they  were  anxious  to  secure.  From  all  the  circumstances 
of  the  case,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  others  were  more  to 
blame  than  Law,  for  the  disastrous  effects  of  his  financial  pro- 
jects. His  bank,  had  it  been  confined  to  its  original  limits,  and 
left  to  the  control  of  its  own  internal  regulations,  might  have 
gone  on  prosi)erously,  and  been  of  great  benefit  to  the  nation. 
It  was  an  institution  fit.ed  for  a  free  country  ;  but  unfortunately 
it  was  subjected  to  the  control  of  a  despotic  government,  that 
could,  at  its  i)leasuve,  alter  the  value  of  the  specie  within  its 
vaults,  and   compel   the    most  extravagant   expansions  of   itsi 


■' 


64 


TUE  CRAYON   PAPERS. 


5- 


Vi 


paper  circulation.  The  vital  principle  of  a  hank  is  security  in 
the  regularity  of  its  operations,  and  tlie  imrneditite  convertil)ility 
of  its  paper  into  coin  ;  and  what  confidence  could  be  reposed  iu 
an  institution  or  its  pai)cr  promises,  when  the  sovereign  could 
at  any  moment  centuple  those  promises  in  the  market,  and  seizt 
upon  all  the  money  in  the  btiuk?  The  compulsory  measure? 
used,  likewise,  to  force  bank  notes  into  currency,  against  the 
Judgment  of  the  public,  wan  fatal  to  the  system ;  for  credit 
must  be  free  and  uncontrolled  as  tlie  common  air.  The  Regent 
was  the  evil  spirit  of  the  system,  that  forced  Law  on  to  an 
expansion  of  his  paper  currency  far  beyond  what  he  had  ever 
dreamed  of.  He  it  was  that  in  a  manner  compelled  the  unluckj 
projector  to  devise  all  kinds  of  collateral  companies  and  mo- 
nopolies, by  which  to  raise  funds  to  meet  the  constantly  and  enor- 
mously increasing  emissions  of  shares  and  notes.  Law  was  hut 
iike  a  poor  conjurer  in  the  hands  of  a  potent  spirit  that  he  has 
evoked,  and  that  obliges  him  to  go  on,  desi)erately  and  ruinously, 
with  his  conjurations.  He  only  thought  at  the  outset  to  raise 
the  wind,  but  the  Regent  compelled  him  to  raise  the  whirlwind. 

The  investigation  of  the  affairs  of  the  Company  by  the  coun- 
cil, resulted  in  nothing  beneficial  to  the  public.  The  princes 
and  nobles  who  had  enriched  themselves  by  all  kinds  of  juggles 
and  extortions,  escaped  unpunished,  and  retained  the  greater 
part  of  their  spoils.  Many  of  the  "suddenly  rich,"  who  luul 
risen  from  obscurity  to  a  giddy  height  of  imaginary  prosperity, 
and  had  indulged  in  all  kinds  of  vulgar  and  ridiculous  excesses, 
awoke  as  out  of  a  dream,  iu  their  original  poverty,  now  inad<i 
more  galling  and  humiliating  by  their  transient  elevation. 

The  weight  of  the  evil,  however,  fell  on  more  valuable  classes 
of  society ;  honest  tradesmen  and  artisans,  who  had  been  se- 
duced away  from  the  safe  pursuits  of  industry,  to  the  si)ecious 
chances  of  speculation.  Thousands  of  meritorious  families 
also,  once  opulent,  had  been  reduced  to  indigence,  by  a  too 
great  confidence  in  government.  There  was  a  general  derange- 
ment in  the  finances,  that  long  exerted  a  baneful  infiuence  over 
the  national  i)rosperity  ;  but  the  most  disaslrouy  effects  of  the 
system  were  upon  the  morals  and  manners  of  the  nation.  The 
faith  of  engagements,  the  sanctity  of  promises  in  affairs  of 
business,  were  at  an  end.  Every  expedient  to  grasp  present 
profit,  or  to  evade  present  difficulty,  was  tolerated.  While  such 
deplorable  laxity  of  principle  was  generated  in  the  busy  classes, 
Jhe  chivalry  of  T<>ance  had  soiled  their  pennons  ;  and  honor  and 
glory,  so  long  the  idols  of  the  Gallic  nobility,  had  been  tumbled 
to  the  earth,  and  trampled  in  the  dirt  of  the  stock-market. 


DON  JUAN. 


security  in 
iivertil)ility 

reposed  iu 

vign  could 

and  seizt 

y  measures 

igainst  the 

for  credit 
riie  Regent 
on  to  an 
e  had  ever 
Llie  unluclij 
;'.s  and  nio- 
y  and  enor- 
law  was  but 
,liat  lie  has 
1  ruinously, 
,set  to  raise 
whirlwind. 
ly  the  couu- 
rhe  princes 
s  of  jugii'les 
the  greater 

'  who  had 

prosperity, 
as  excesses, 
,  now  niad«p 
LtioQ. 

lable  classes 
•id  been  se- 
,he  specious 
Ills  families 
e,  by  a  too 
•al  derange- 
[luence  over 
'ects  of  the 
ation .  The 
1  affairs  of 
asp  present 

While  such 
lusy  classes, 
d  honor  and 
ecn  tumbled 
lurkct. 


65 


h 


As  to  Law,  the  originator  of  the  system,  he  appears  eventu- 
ally to  have  profited  but  little  by  his  schemes.  "  He  was  a 
quack,"  says  Voltaire,  "to  whom  the  state  was  given  to  be 
cured,  but  who  poisoned  it  with  his  drugs,  and  who  poisoned 
himself."  The  effects  which  he  left  behind  in  France,  were 
sold  at  a  low  price,  and  the  proceeds  dissipated.  His  landed 
estates  were  confiscated.  He  carried  away  with  him  barely 
enough  to  maintain  himself,  his  wife,  and  daughter,  with  de- 
cency. The  chief  relic  of  his  immense  fortune  was  a  great 
diamond,  which  he  was  often  obliged  to  pawn.  He  was  in 
England  in  1721,  and  was  presented  to  George  the  First.  He 
returneil  shortly  afterwards  to  the  continent ;  shifting  about 
from  place  to  place,  and  died  in  Venice,  in  1729.  His  wife  and 
daughter,  accustomed  to  live  with  the  prodigality  of  princesses, 
could  not  conform  to  their  altered  fortunes,  but  dissipated  the 
scanty  means  left  to  them,  and  sank  into  abject  ix)verty.  ''  I 
saw  his  wife,"  says  Voltaire,  "at  Bruxelles,  as  much  humili- 
ated as  she  had  been  haughty  and  triumphant  at  Paris."  An 
elder  brother  of  Law  remained  iu  France,  and  was  protected 
by  the  Duchess  of  Bourbon.  His  descendants  acquitted  them- 
selves honorably,  in  various  public  employments ;  and  one  of 
them  was  the  Marquis  Lauristou,  some  time  Lieutenant  General 
and  Peer  of  France. 


DON  JUAN. 

A   SPECTRAL   RESEARCH. 

"I  have  heard  of  epirltB  walking;  with  aeriul  bodies,  and  have  beau  wondered  ntb^ 
others;  but  I  must  only  wonder  at  niyKelf,  for  if  they  be  uut  mad,  I'lue  come  to  my  ow>. 
buriall."  —  Sqirlet'8  "  Witty  Faibie  Omb." 

Everybody  has  heard  of  the  fate  of  Don  Juan,  the  famous 
libertine  of  Seville,  who  for  his  sins  against  the  fair  sex  auu 
other  minor  peccadilloes  was  hurried  away  to  the  infernal  re- 
gions. His  story  has  been  illustrated  iu  play,  in  pantomime, 
and  farce,  on  every  stage  in  Christendom  ;  until  at  length  it  has 
been  rendered  the  theme  of  the  opera  of  operas,  and  embalmed 
to  endless  duration  in  th(;  glorious  music  of  IMozart.  I  well 
recollect  the  effect  of  this  stoi-y  ii[)()n  my  feelings  in  my  boy- 
ish days,  though  represented  in  giotesque  pantomime  ;  the  awe 
with  which  1  contemplated  the  monumental  statue  on  horseback 
of  the  murdered  commander,  gleaming  by  pale  moonlight  ib 


66 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


'f      'Ui 


I'  U 


the  convent  cemetery ;  how  mj'  heart  (iiiakod  as  he  bowed  his 
marble  head,  and  accepted  the  impious  invitation  of  Don  .Iiiaii: 
how  each  foot-fall  of  the  statue  smote  upon  my  heart,  as  I 
heard  it  approach,  step  by  step,  througii  tiie  echoing  corridor, 
and  beheld  it  enter,  and  advance,  a  moving  figure  of  stouo,  to 
the  supper-table !  But  then  the  convivial  scene  in  tlie  Jianiel- 
house,  where  Don  Juan  returned  the  visit  of  the  statue  ;  was 
offered  a  banquet  of  skulls  and  l)ones,  and  on  refusing  to  piu- 
take,  was  hurled  into  a  yawning  gulf,  under  a  trciiu'udijiis 
shower  of  fire!  These  were  accumulated  horrors  enough  to 
shake  the  nerves  of  the  most  pantomime-loving  school-lioy. 
Many  have  supposed  the  story  of  Don  Juan  a  mere  fal)i('.  I 
myself  thought  so  once;  but  ''seeing  is  believing."  1  liave 
since  beheld  the  very  scene  where  it  took  place,  and  now  to  in- 
dulge any  doubt  on  the  subject  would  be  preposterous. 

I  was  one  night  perambulating  the  streets  of  Seville,  in  com- 
pany with  a  Spanisli  friend,  a  curious  investigator  of  the  popu- 
lar traditions  and  other  good-for-nothing  lore  of  the  city,  and 
who  was  kind  enough  to  imagine  he  had  met,  in  me,  with  a 
congenial  spirit.  In  the  course  of  our  rambles  we  were  passin;^ 
by  a  heavy,  dark  gateway,  o[)ening  into  the  court-yard  of  a 
convent,  when  he  laid  his  hand  upon  ni}'  arm  :  "  Stop!  "  said 
he,  "  this  is  the  convent  of  San  Francisco  ;  there  is  a  story  con- 
nected with  it,  which  I  am  sure  must  be  known  to  you.  You 
cannot  but  have  heard  of  Don  Juan  and  the  marble  statue." 

"Undoubtedly,"  replied  I,  "  it  has  been  familiar  to  me  from 
childhood." 

"  Well,  then,  it  was  in  the  cemetery  oi  this  very  convent  that 
the  events  took  place." 

*'  Why,  you  do  not  mean  to  say  that  the  story  is  founded  on 
fact?" 

"  Undoubtedly  it  is.  The  circumstances  of  the  case  are  said 
to  have  occurred  during  the  reign  of  Alfonso  XI.  Don  -Jnan 
was  of  the  noble  family  of  Tenorio,  one  of  the  most  illusiiious 
houses  of  Andalusia.  His  father,  Don  Diego  Tenorio,  was  a 
favorite  of  the  king,  and  his  family  ranked  among  the  vi'inte- 
cuatron,  or  magistrates,  of  the  city.  Presuming  on  his  higli  de- 
scent and  powerful  connections,  Don  Juan  set  no  l)ounds  to  his 
excesses  :  no  female,  high  or  low,  was  sacred  from  his  pursuit: 
and  he  soon  became  the  scandal  of  Seville.  One  of  his  most 
daring  outrages  was,  to  penetrate  by  night  into  the  palace  of 
Don  Gonzalo  dc  UUoa,  commander  of  the  order  of  Calatrava, 
and  attempt  to  carry  off  his  daughu/.  The  household  was 
alarmed ;  a  scuffle  in  the  dark  took  place  ;  Don  Juan  escaiiudj 


bowed  his 

Don  Juan : 

U'iut,   as  I 

g  corridor, 

if  stoiio,  to 

le  Jiiuiit'l- 

tatuc  ;  was 

nu<i  to  par- 

Irciiu'inloiis 

(.'noiiiiii  to 

scliool-lioy. 

'  fal)lc.     I 

"     1   liavo 

now  to  in- 

s. 

lie,  in  ooni- 

tlic  popii- 

le  city,  and 

mc,  with  a 

'ore  passiiii;^ 

t-yard  of  a 

top!  "  said 

I  story  coii- 

yoii.     You 

itatue." 

to  inc  from 

.'onvcnt  that 

founded  on 

ase  are  said 
Don  .iiian 

it  ilUisU'ious 
lorio,  was  a 
5  the  vciide- 
his  higli  de- 
>unds  to  liis 
liis  pursuit : 
of  liis  nio.st 
le  palace  of 
f  C'alatrava, 
useliold  \v:is 
lan  escapodj 


DON  JUAN. 


67 


but  the  unfortunate  commander  was  found  weltering  in  his 
hlood,  and  expired  without  i)eing  able  to  name  .lis  murderer. 
Suspicions  attached  to  Don  Juan  ;  he  did  not  stop  to  meet  the 
investigations  of  justice,  and  the  vengeance  of  the  powerful 
family  of  Ulloa,  but  fled  from  Seville,  and  took  refuge  with  his 
uncle,  Don  Pedro  Tenorio,  at  £hnt  time  ambassador  at  the  court 
of  Naples.  Here  he  remained  until  the  agitation  occasioned  by 
the  murder  of  IV^a  ( Jonzalo  had  time  to  subside  ;  and  the  scan- 
dal which  the  affair  might  cause  to  both  ihe  families  of  Ulloa 
and  Teiiorio  had  induced  them  to  hush  it  up,  Don  Juan,  how- 
ever, continued  his  libertine  career  at  Naples,  until  at  length 
his  excesses  forfeited  the  protection  of  his  uncle,  the  ambassa- 
dor, and  ol)ligod  him  again  to  i\Qe.  He  had  made  his  way  back 
to  Seville,  trusting  that  his  past  misdeeds  were  forgotten,  or 
ratiier  trusting  to  his  dare-devil  spirit  and  the  power  of  his 
family,  to  carry  him  through  all  difticulties. 

'•It  was  shortly  after  his  return,  and  while  in  the  height  of 
his  arrogance,  that  on  visiting  this  very  convent  of  Francisco, 
he  beheld  on  a  monument  the  ('(juestrian  statue  of  the  murdered 
coiiuiiaiuler,  who  had  lu'eii  lairied  within  the  walls  of  this  sacred 
editiee,  where  the  family  of  Ulloa  had  a  chapel.  It  was  on  this 
occasion  that  Don  Juan,  in  a  moment  of  impious  levity,  invited 
the  statue  to  the  banquet,  the  awful  catastrophe  of  which  lias 
given  such  celebrity  to  his  story." 

"  And  pray  how  much  of  this  story,"  said  I,  "  is  believed  in 
Seville?" 

"The  whole  of  it  by  the  populace;  with  whom  it  has  been 
a  favorite  tradition  since  time  immemorial,  and  who  crowd  to 
the  theatres  to  see  it  represented  in  dramas  written  long  since 
by  Tyrso  de  Molina,  and  another  of  our  popular  writers.  Many 
in  our  higher  ranks  also,  accustomed  from  childhood  to  this 
story,  would  feel  somewhat  indignant  at  hearing  it  treated  with 
contempt.  An  attempt  has  been  made  to  explain  the  whole, 
by  asserting  tliat,  to  put  an  end  to  the  extravagances  of  Don 
Juan,  and  to  pacify  the  family  of  Ulloa,  without  exposing  the 
;lelinquent  to  the  degrading  penalties  of  justice,  he  was  decoyed 
into  tills  convent  under  a  false  pretext,  and  either  plunged  into  a 
perpetual  dungeon,  or  privately  hurried  '>ut  of  existence  ;  while 
the  story  of  the  statue  was  circulated  by  the  monks,  to  account 
for  his  sudden  disappearance.  The  populace,  however,  are  not 
to  be  cajoled  out  of  a  ghost  story  by  any  of  these  plausible 
explanations  ;  and  the  marble  statue  still  strides  the  stage,  and 
Don  Juan  is  still  plunged  into  the  infernal  regions,  as  an  awful 
warning  to  all  rake-helly  youngsters,  in  like  case*  offending." 


!      V 


'3' 


Nl  - 


(. 


I 


\ 


u 


h      I 


I 


!    I 


; 


Ih 


'.    r 


6S 


T//;!:  c/?/ij'OJ\r  papers. 


"While  my  ooitipnnion  was  rolafinj^f  those  anecdotes,  we  had 
entered  tlie  ^ate-way,  traversed  the  exterior  court-yai-d  of  the 
convent,  and  made  oui'  way  into  a  <rreat  interior  court;  partly 
Burrounded  l)y  cloisters  and  dormitories,  partly  hy  chapels,  and 
haviiifj;  a  lar<j;e  fonnlain  in  the  centre.  The  pile  had  evidently 
once  lieen  I'xtensivc  and  mannifieent ;  hut  it  was  for  the  greater 
part  in  ruins,  liy  the  liiiht  of  the  stars,  and  of  twinkling  laraps 
placed  here  and  there  in  the  chapels  and  corridors,  I  could  sec 
that  many  of  tiie  eohnnns  and  arches  were  broken  ;  the  wall.' 
were  rent  and  rivi-n  ;  wliile  liurned  heams  and  rafters  showed  th( 
destructive  effects  of  lire.  The  whole  place  had  a  desolate  air ; 
tlie  night  breeze  rustled  tlirough  grass  and  weeds  flaunting  out 
of  tiie  crevices  of  tiie  walls,  or  from  the  shattered  columns  ;  the 
bat  flitted  about  the  vaulted  passages,  and  the  owl  hooted  from 
the  ruined  belfry.  Never  was  any  scene  more  completely  lilted 
for  a  giiost  story. 

While  I  was  indulging  in  picturings  of  the  fancy,  proper  to 
such  a  place,  the  deep  chant  of  the  monks  from  the  convent 
church  came  swelling  upon  tiie  ear.  "  It  is  the  vesper  service," 
said  my  companion  ;  "  follow  me." 

Leading  the  way  across  the  court  of  the  cloisters,  and 
through  one  or  two  ruined  passages,  he  reached  the  distant 
l)ortal  of  the  church,  and  pushing  open  a  wicket,  cut  in  the 
folding-doors,  we  found  ourselves  in  the  deep  arched  vestibule 
of  the  sacred  edifice.  To  our  left  was  the  choir,  forming  one 
end  of  the  church,  and  having  a  low  vaulted  ceiling,  which  gave 
it  the  look  of  a  cavern.  About  this  were  ranged  the  monks, 
seated  on  stools,  and  chanting  from  immense  i)ooks  placed  on 
inusic-st'iiids,  ami  having  the  notes  scored  in  such  gigantic 
characters  as  to  be  legible  from  every  part  of  the  choir.  A  few 
lights  on  these  music-stands  dimly  illumined  the  choir,  gleamed 
on  the  shaven  heads  of  the  monks,  and  threw  their  shadows  on 
the  walls.  They  were  gross,  blue-bearded,  bullet-headed  men, 
with  bass  voices,  of  deep  metallic  tone,  that  reverberated  oul 
of  the  cavernous  choir. 

To  our  right  extended  the  great  body  of  the  church.  It  was 
8j)acious  and  lofty  ;  some  of  the  side  chapels  had  gilded  grates, 
and  were  decorated  with  images  and  paintings,  represent  ng 
the  sufferings  of  our  Saviour.  Aloft  was  a  great  painting  by 
Murillo,  but  too  nuich  in  the  dark  to  be  distinguished.  The 
gloom  of  the  whole  church  was  but  faintly  relieved  by  the  re- 
flected light  from  the  choir,  and  the  glimmering  here  and  there 
of  a  votive  lamp  before  the  shrine  of  a  saint. 

As  my  eye  roamed  about   the  shadowy  pile,  it  was   struck 


DON  JUAN. 


69 


with  the  dimly  scpn  fignro  of  ft  man  on  horseback,  near  a  dia- 
tjint  altar.  I  touched  my  companion,  and  pointed  to  it:  "The 
spectre  statue  !  "  said  I. 

"  No,"  replied  he  ;  "  it  is  the  statue  of  the  blessed  St.  lago ; 
tlie  statue  of  the  commander  was  in  the  cemetery  of  the  con- 
vent, and  was  destroyed  at  tiie  time  of  the  conflajjration. 
Hut,"  added  he,  "as  I  see  you  take  a  proper  interest  in  these 
kind  of  stories,  come  with  me  to  the  other  end  of  the  church, 
where  our  whisperings  will  not  disturb  these  holy  fathers  at 
their  devotions,  and  I  will  tell  you  another  story,  that  has  been 
current  for  some  generations  in  our  city,  by  which  you  will  find 
that  Don  Juan  is  not  tlie  only  libertine  that  has  been  the  object 
of  supernatural  c.astigation  in  Seville." 

I  accordingly  followed  him  with  noiseless  tread  to  the  fartlier 
part  of  the  church,  where  we  took  our  seats  on  the  steps  of  an 
iiltar,  opposite  to  the  suspi(>ious-looking  figure  on  horseback, 
!uul  there,  in  a  low,  inysteiious  voice,  he  related  to  me  the  fol- 
lowing narrative  : 

"Tlicre  was  once  in  Seville  a  gay  young  fellow,  Don  Manuel 
(le  Manara  by  name,  who  having  come  to  a  great  estate  by  the 
death  of  his  father,  gave  the  reins  to  his  passions,  and  plunged 
into  all  kinds  of  dissipation.  Like  Don  .luan,  whom  he  seemed 
to  have  taken  for  a  model,  he  Ijccame  famous  for  his  enterprises 
among  tlie  fair  sex,  and  was  tiie  cause  of  doors  being  barred 
and  windows  grated  with  more  than  usual  strictness.  All  in 
vain.  No  balcony  was  too  high  for  him  to  scale ;  no  bolt  nor 
bar  was  ;"roof  against  his  etTorts  ;  and  his  very  name  was  a 
word  of  terror  to  all  the  jealous  husl)ands  and  cautious  fathers 
of  Seville.  His  exploits  extended  to  country  as  well  as  city ; 
and  in  the  village  dependent  on  his  castle,  scarce  a  rural  beauty 
was  safe  from  his  arts  and  enterprises. 

"As  he  was  one  day  ranging  the  streets  of  Seville,  with  sev- 
eral of  his  dissolute  companions,  he  beheld  a  procession  about 
to  enter  the  gate  of  a  convent.  In  the  centre  was  a  young 
female  arrayed  in  the  dress  of  a  bride ;  it  was  a  novice,  who, 
having  accomplished  her  j^ear  of  probation,  was  about  to  take 
the  black  veil,  and  consecrate  herself  to  heaven.  The  com- 
panions of  Don  INIanuel  drew  back,  o"t  of  respect  to  the  sacred 
pageant ;  but  he  pressed  forward,  with  his  usual  impetuosity, 
to  gain  a  near  view  of  the  novice.  He  almost  jostled  her,  in 
passing  through  the  portal  of  the  church,  when,  on  her  turning 
round,  he  beheld  the  ccuntenance  of  a  Vieautiful  village  girl,  who 
had  been  the  object  of  his  ardent  pursuit,  but  who  had  been  spir- 
ited secretly  out  of  his  reach  by  her  relatives.     She  recognized 


h 


'  m 


i 


I  :   ■ 


70 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


him  at  the  same  moment,  and  fainted ;  but  was  borne  within 
the  grate  of  the  chi.p?\  It  was  supposed  the  agitation  of  the 
ceremony  and  the  heat  of  the  throng  had  overcome  ht  r.  After 
some  time,  the  curtain  which  hung  within  the  grate  was  drawn 
up :  there  stood  the  novice,  pale  and  trembling,  surrounded  by 
the  abbess  and  the  nuns.  The  ceremony  proceeded  ;  the  crown 
of  flowers  was  taken  from  her  head  ;  she  was  shorn  of  her  silken 
tresses,  received  the  black  veil,  and  went  passively  through  the 
remainder  of  the  ceremony. 

"  Don  Manuel  de  Manara,  on  the  contrary,  was  roused  to 
fury  at  the  sight  of  this  sacrifice.  His  passion,  which  had  al- 
most faded  away  in  the  absence  of  the  object,  now  glowed  with 
tenfold  ardor,  being  inflamed  by  the  difficulties  placed  in  his 
way,  and  piqued  by  the  measures  which  had  been  taken  to  de- 
feat him.  Never  had  the  object  of  his  pursuit  appeared  so 
lovely  and  desirable  as  when  within  the  grate  of  the  convent ; 
and  he  swore  to  have  her,  in  defiance  of  heaven  and  earth.  By 
dint  of  bribing  a  female  seiTant  of  the  convent  he  contrived  to 
convey  letters  to  her,  pleading  his  passion  in  the  most  eloquent 
and  seductive  terms.  How  successful  they  were  is  only  matter 
of  conjecture  ;  certain  it  is,  he  undertook  one  night  to  scale  the 
<;:arden  wall  of  the  convent,  either  to  carry  off  the  nun,  or  gain 
admission  to  her  cell.  Just  as  he  was  mounting  the  wall  he  was 
suddenly  plucked  back,  and  a  stranger,  muflfled  in  a  cloak,  stood 
before  him. 

"  '  Rash  man,  forbear ! '  cried  he  :  'is  it  not  enough  to  have 
violated  all  human  ties?  "Wouldst  thou  steal  a  bride  from 
heaven ! ' 

' '  The  sword  of  Don  Manuel  had  been  drawn  on  the  instant, 
and  furious  at  this  interruption,  he  passed  it  through  the  body 
of  the  stranger,  who  fell  dead  at  his  feet.  Hearing  approach- 
ing footsteps,  he  fled  the  fatal  spot,  and  mounting  his  horse, 
which  was  at  hand,  retreated  to  his  estate  in  the  country,  at  no 
great  distance  from  Seville.  Here  he  remained  throughout  the 
next  day,  full  of  horror  and  remorse ;  dreading  lest  he  should 
be  known  as  the  murderer  of  the  deceased,  and  fearing  each 
moment  the  arrival  of  the  oflUcers  of  justice. 

"  The  day  passed,  however,  without  molestation  ;  and,  as  the 
evening  approached,  unable  any  longer  to  endure  this  state  of 
uncertainty  and  apprehension,  he  ventured  back  to  Seville. 
Irresistibly  his  footsteps  took  the  direction  to  the  convent ;  but 
he  paused  and  hovered  at  a  distance  from  the  scene  of  blood. 
Several  persons  were  gathered  round  the  place,  one  of  whom 
was  busy  nailing  something  against  the  convent  wall.     After  a 


BON  JUAN. 


71 


)rne  within 
tion  of  the 
i«  r.  After 
was  drawn 
■ounded  by 
the  crown 
f  her  silken 
hrough  the 

roused  to 
icb  had  al- 
;lowed  with 
ced  in  his 
ken  to  de- 
ppeared  so 
e  convent; 
earth.  By 
!ontrived  to 
►st  eloquent 
only  matter 
to  scale  the 
un,  or  gain 
wall  he  was 
loak,  stood 


gh  to  have 
hride    from 


;he  instant, 
li  the  body 
;  approach- 
bis  horse, 
ntry,  at  no 
lugbout  the 
;  be  should 
!aring  each 

and,  as  the 
lis  state  of 
to  Seville, 
nvont ;  but 
?  of  blood. 
e  of  whom 
.     After  a 


while  they  dispersed,  and  one  passed  near  to  Don  Manuel. 
The  latter  addressed  him,  with  hesitating  voice. 

'*  ^  Senor,'  said  he,  '  may  I  ask  the  reason  of  yonder  throng?' 

'*  'A  cavalier,'  replied  the  other,  '  has  been  murdered.' 

''  '  Murdered !  '  echoed  Don  Manuel ;  '  and  can  you  tell  ma 
his  name  ?  ' 

"  '  Don  Manuel  de  Manara,  replied  the  stranger,  and  passed  on. 

"  Don  Manuel  was  startled  at  this  mention  of  his  own  name ; 
especially  when  applied  to  the  murdered  man.  He  ventured, 
when  it  was  entirely  deserted,  to  approach  the  fatal  spot.  A 
small  cross  had  been  nailed  against  the  wall,  as  is  customary  in 
Spain,  to  mark  the  place  where  a  murder  has  been  committed  ; 
and  just  below  it  be  read,  by  the  twinkling  light  of  a  lamp : 
'  Here  was  murdered  Don  Manuel  de  Manara.  Pray  to  God 
for  his  soul ! ' 

"  Still  more  confounded  and  perplexed  by  this  inscription,  he 
wandered  about  the  streets  until  the  night  was  far  advanced,  and 
all  was  still  and  lonely.  As  he  entered  the  principal  square, 
the  light  of  torches  suddenly  broke  on  him,  and  he  beheld  a 
grand  funeral  procession  moving  across  it.  There  was  a  great 
train  of  priests,  and  many  persons  of  dignified  appearance,  in 
ancient  Spanish  dresses,  attending  as  mourners,  none  of  whom 
he  knew.  Accosting  a  servant  who  followed  in  the  train,  be 
demanded  the  name  of  the  defunct. 

"  'Don  Manuel  de  Manara,'  was  the  reply  ;  and  it  went  cold 
to  his  heart.  He  looked,  and  indeed  beheld  the  armorial  bear- 
ings of  his  family  emblazoned  on  the  funeral  escutcheons.  Yet 
not  one  of  bis  family  was  to  be  seen  among  the  mourners.  The 
mystery  was  more  and  more  incomprehensible. 

''  He  followed  the  procession  as  it  moved  on  to  the  cathedral. 
The  bif^r  was  deposited  before  the  high  altar ;  the  funeral  ser- 
vice was  commenced,  and  the  grand  organ  began  to  peal  through 
the  vaulted  aisles. 

''Again  the  youth  ventured  to  question  this  awful  pageant. 
'Father,'  said  he,  with  trembling  voice,  to  one  of  the  priests, 
'  who  is  this  you  are  about  to  inter?  ' 

"  '  Don  Manuel  de  Manara  ! '  replied  the  priest. 

" '  Father,'  cried  Don  Manuel,  impatiently,  '  you  are  deceived. 
This  is  some  imposture.  Know  that  Don  Manuel  de  Manara  is 
alive  and  well,  and  now  stands  before  you.  /am  Don  Manuel 
de  Manara !  ' 

"  'A vaunt,  rash  youth! '  cried  the  priest;  'know  that  Don 
IManuel  de  Manara  is  dead  !  —  is  dead  !  —  is  dead  !  —  and  wo 
are  all  souls  from  purgatory,  his  deceased  relatives  and  ances- 


; 


) 


■^1. 


J   • 


72 


THE    CRAYON    PAPERS. 


K'  H 


tors,  and  others  that  have  been  aided  by  masses  of  his  family,  who 
are  permitted  to  come  here  and  pray  for  the  repose  of  his  soul ! ' 

"Don  Mmucl  cast  round  a  fearful  ghmoo  upon  the  assem- 
blage, in  antiquated  Spanish  garbs,  and  recognized  in  their  pale 
and  ghastly  countenances  the  portraits  of  many  an  ancestor  unit 
hung  in  the  family  picture-gallery.  He  now  lost  all  self-com- 
mand, rushed  up  to  the  bier,  and  beheld  the  counterpart  of  him- 
aeU,  but  in  the  fixed  and  livid  lineaments  of  death  Just  at 
that  moment  the  whole  choir  burst  forth  with  a  '  Requiescat  in 
pace,'  that  shook  the  vaults  of  the  cathedral.  Don  Manuel  sank 
senseless  on  the  pavement.  He  was  found  there  early  the  next 
morning  by  the  sacristan,  and  conveyed  to  his  home.  When 
sufficiently  recovered,  he  sent  for  a  friar,  and  made  a  full  con- 
fession of  all  that  nad  happened. 

"  '  My  son,'  said  the  friar,  'all  this  is  a  miracle  and  a  mys- 
tery, intended  for  thy  conversion  and  salvation.  The  corpse 
thou  hast  seen  was  a  token  that  thou  hadst  died  to  sin  and  the 
world ;  take  warning  by  it,  and  henceforth  live  to  righteous- 
ness and  heaven !  ' 

"  Don  Manuel  did  take  warning  by  it.  Guided  by  the  coun- 
sels  of  the  worthy  friar,  he  disposed  of  all  his  temporal  affairs ; 
dedicated  the  greater  part  of  his  wealth  to  pious  uses,  espe- 
cially to  the  performance  of  masses  for  souls  in  purgatory  ;  and 
finally,  entering  a  convent,  became  one  of  the  most  zealous  and 
exemplary  monks  in  Seville." 


While  my  companion  was  relating  this  story,  my  eyes  wan- 
dered, from  time  to  time,  about  the  dusky  churcli.  Methouglit 
the  burly  countenances  of  the  monks  in  tiieir  distant  choir 
assumed  a  pallid,  ghastly  hue,  and  their  deep  metallic  voices  had 
6  sepulchral  sound.  By  the  time  the  story  was  ended,  they  had 
ended  their  chant ;  and,  extinguishing  tiieir  lights,  glided  one 
by  one,  like  shadows,  through  a  small  door  in  tiie  side  of  the 
choir.  A  deeper  gloom  prevailed  over  the  church  ;  the  figure 
opposite  me  on  horseback  grew  more  and  more  spectral ;  and  I 
almost  expected  to  see  it  bow  its  head. 

"It  is  time  to  be  off,"  said  my  companion,  "unless  we 
intend  to  sup  with  the  statue." 

"  I  have  no  relish  for  such  fare  or  such  company,"  replied  I ; 
and,  following  my  companion,  we  groped  our  way  througli  the 
mouldering  cloisters.  As  we  passed  by  the  ruined  cemetery, 
keeping  up  a  casual  conversation  by  way  of  dispelling  the 
loneliness  of  the  scene,  I  called  to  mind  the  words  of  the  [)oet.- 


i   I. 


imily,  who 
his  soul ! ' 
he  assem- 

their  pale 
?eslor  liiat 

self-com- 
irt  of  him- 
Just  at 
uiescat  in 
[inuel  sank 
the  next 
e.     When 

full  con- 
ad  a  mys- 
Mie  corpse 
in  and  the 

righteous- 

1  the  coun- 
ral  affairs ; 
ises,  espe- 
itory  ;  and 
ealous  and 


eyes  wan- 
Methought 
itant  choir 
voices  had 
1,  they  had 
glided  one 
5ide  of  the 
the  figure 
tral ;  and  I 


'  unless  we 

'  replied  I ; 
hrough  the 
cemetery, 
pelling  the 
I  the  poet; 


BROEK.  73 

"  The  tombs 

And  monumental  caves  of  deatb  look  cold, 
And  ehoot  a  chiUneHs  to  my  trembling  heart  I 
Give  me  thy  hand,  and  let  me  hear  thy  voice; 
Nay,  »peak  —  and  )et  mc  hear  thy  voice ; 
Mine  own  affrights  me  with  Its  echoes." 

There  wanted  nothing  but  the  marble  statue  of  the  commander 
striding  along  the  echoing  cloisters  to  complete  the  haunted 
scene. 

Since  that  time  I  never  fail  to  attend  the  theatre  whenever  the 
story  of  Don  Juan  is  represented,  whether  in  pantomime  or 
opera.  In  the  sepulchral  scene,  I  feel  myself  quite  at  home ; 
and  when  the  «tatue  makes  his  appearance,  I  greet  him  as  an 
old  acquaintance.  When  the  audience  applaud,  I  look  round 
upon  them  with  a  degree  of  compassion.  "  Poor  souls !  "  I  say 
to  myself,  "they  think  they  are  pleased;  they  think  tliey 
enjoy  this  piece,  and  yet  they  consider  the  whole  as  a  fiction  ! 
How  much  more  would  they  enjoy  it,  if  like  me  they  knew  it  to 
be  true  —  and  had  seen  the  very  place  !  " 


BROEK : 


OR  THE   DUTCH   PARADISE. 


It  has  long  been  a  matter  of  discussion  and  controversy 
among  the  pious  and  the  learned,  as  to  the  situation  of  the 
terrestrial  paradise  whence  our  first  parents  were  exiled.  This 
question  has  been  put  to  rest  by  certern  of  the  faithful  in  Hol- 
land, who  have  decided  in  favor  of  the  village  of  Broek,  about 
six  miles  from  Amsterdam.  It  may  not,  they  observe,  corre- 
spond in  all  repects  to  the  description  of  the  garden  of  Eden, 
handed  down  from  days  of  yore,  but  it  comes  nearer  to  their 
ideas  of  a  perfect  paradise  than  any  other  place  on  earth. 

This  eulogium  induced  me  to  make  some  inquiries  as  to  this 
favored  spot  in  the  course  of  a  sojourn  at  the  city  of  Amster- 
dam, and  the  information  I  procured  fully  justified  the  enthu- 
siastic praises  I  had  heard.  The  village  of  Broek  is  situated  in 
Waterland,  in  the  midst  of  the  gnenest  and  richest  pastures  of 
Holland,  I  may  say,  of  Europe.  These  pastures  are  the  source 
of  its  wealth,  for  it  is  famous  for  its  dairies,  and  for  those  oval 
cheeses  which  regale  and   perfume  the  whole  civilized  world. 


74 


THE  ':raion  papHrs. 


u 


The  population  consists  of  about  six  hundred  persons,  compris- 
ing several  families  which  have  inhabited  the  place  since  time 
immemorial,  and  have  waxed  rich  on  the  products  of  their 
meadows.  They  keep  all  their  wealth  among  themselves,  inter- 
marrying, and  keeping  all  strangers  at  a  wary  distance.  They 
are  a  "hard  money"  people,  and  remarkable  for  turning  the 
penny  the  right  way.  It  is  said  to  have  been  an  old  rule,  estab 
lished  by  one  of  the  primitive  financiers  and  legislators  of  Broek^ 
that  no  one  should  leave  the  village  with  more  than  six  guilder? 
in  his  pocket,  or  return  with  less  than  ten  ;  a  shrewd  reguhition, 
well  worthy  the  attention  of  modern  political  economists,  whc 
are  so  anxious  to  fix  the  balance  of  trade. 

What,  however,  renders  Broek  so  perfect  an  elysium  in  the 
eyes  of  all  true  Hollanders,  is  the  matcliless  height  to  which 
the  spirit  of  cleanliness  is  carried  there.  It  amounts  almoot  ton 
religion  among  the  inhabitants,  who  pass  the  greater  part  of 
their  time  rubbing  and  scrubbing,  and  painting  and  varnishing; 
each  housewife  vies  with  her  neighbor  in  her  devotion  to  the 
Bcrubbing-brush,  as  zealous  Catholics  do  in  their  devotion  to 
the  cross  ;  and  it  is  said  a  notable  housewife  of  the  place  in  days 
of  yore  is  held  in  pious  remembrance,  and  -Imost  canonized  as  a 
saint,  for  having  died  of  pure  exhaustion  and  chagrin  in  an 
ineffectual  attempt  to  scour  a  black  man  white. 

These  particulars  awakened  my  ardent  curiosity  to  see  a 
place  which  I  pictured  to  myself  the  very  fountain-head  of 
certain  hereditary  habits  and  customs  prevalent  among  the 
descendants  of  the  original  Dutch  settlers  of  my  native  State. 
I  accordingly  lost  no  time  in  performing  a  pilgrimage  to  Broek, 

Before  I  reached  the  place  I  beheld  symptoms  of  the  tranquil 
character  of  its  inhabitants.  A  little  elump-built  boat  was  in 
full  sail  along  the  lazy  bosom  of  a  canal,  but  its  sail  consisted 
of  the  blades  of  two  paddles  stood  on  end,  while  the  navigator 
sat  steering  with  a  third  paddle  in  the  stern,  crouched  down 
like  a  toad,  with  a  slouched  ha*  drawn  over  his  eyes.  I  pre- 
•umed  him  to  be  some  nautical  lover  on  the  way  to  his  mistress. 
After  proceeding  a  little  farther  I  came  in  sight  of  the  harbor 
or  port  of  destination  of  this  drowsy  navigator.  This  was  the 
Broeken-Meer,  an  artificial  basin,  or  s!u!et  of  olive-green  water, 
tranquil  as  a  mill-pond.  On  this  the  vilhige  of  Broek  is  situ- 
ated, and  the  borders  are  laboriously  decorated  with  Uower- 
beds,  box-trees  clipped  into  all  kinds  of  ingenious  shapes  and 
fancies,  and  little  "lust"  houses  or  pavilion':-. 

I  alighted  outside  of  the  vilhige,  for  no  horse  nor  vehicle  is 
permitted  to  enter  its  precincts,  lest  it  should  cause  delllemeul 


5 


■r  i 


BBOEK. 


75 


of  the  well-scoured  pavements.  Shaking  the  dust  off  my  feet, 
therefore,  I  prepared  to  enter,  with  due  reverence  and  circum- 
spection, tliis  sanchim  sanctorum  of  Dutch  cleanliness.  I 
entered  by  a  narrow  street,  paved  with  yellow  bricks,  laid  edge- 
wise, so  clean  that  one  might  eat  from  them.  Indeed,  they 
were  actually  worn  deep,  not  by  the  ti'.d  of  feet,  but  by  the 
friction  of  the  scn-ubbing-brush. 

The  houses  were  built  of  wood,  and  all  appeared  to  have  been 
freshly  painled,  of  green,  yellow,  and  other  bright  colors.  They 
were  separated  from  each  other  by  gardens  and  orchards,  and 
stood  at  some  little  distance  from  the  street,  with  wide  areas  or 
courtyards,  paved  in  mosaic,  with  variegated  stones,  polished 
by  frequent  rubbing.  The  areas  were  divided  from  the  street  by 
curiously-wrought  railings,  or  balustrades,  of  iron,  surmounted 
with  brass  and  copper  balls,  scoured  into  dazzling  effulgence. 
The  very  trunks  of  tiie  trees  in  front  of  the  houses  were  by  the 
same  process  made  to  look  as  if  they  had  been  varnished.  The 
porclies,  doors,  and  window-frames  of  the  houses  were  of  exotic 
woods,  curiously  carved,  and  polished  like  costly  furniture.  The 
front  doors  are  never  opened,  excepting  on  christenings,  mar- 
riages, or  funerals ;  on  all  ordinary  occasions,  visitors  enter  by 
tlie  back  door.  In  former  times,  persons  when  admitted  had  to 
put  on  slippers,  but  this  oriental  ceremony  is  no  longer  insisted 
upon. 

A  poor  devil  Frenchman  who  attended  upon  me  as  cicerone, 
boasted  with  some  degree  of  exultation,  of  a  triumph  of  his 
countrymen  over  the  stern  regulations  of  the  place.  During 
the  time  that  Holland  was  overrun  by  the  armies  of  the  French 
Rei)ublic,  a  French  general,  surrounded  by  his  whole  6tat- 
iiiajor,  who  had  come  from  Amsterdam  to  view  the  wonders  of 
Broek,  api)lied  for  admission  at  one  of  these  tabooed  portals. 
The  reply  was,  that  tlie  owner  never  received  any  one  who  did 
not  come  introduced  by  some  friend.  "Very  well,"  said  the 
general,  "take  my  compliments  to  your  master,  and  tell  him  I 
■vill  return  here  to-morrow  with  a  company  of  soldiers,  '■pour 
jiarler  raison  avec  mon  ami  HoUayidais.'  "  Terrified  at  the 
idea  of  having  a  company  of  soldiers  billeted  upon  him,  the 
owner  threw  open  his  house,  entertained  the  general  and  his 
retinue  with  unwonted  hospitality  ;  though  it  is  said  it  cost  the 
family  a  month's  scrubbing  and  scouring,  to  restore  all  things 
to  exact  order,  after  this  military  invasion.  My  vagabond  in- 
formant seemed  to  consider  this  one  of  the  greatest  victories  of 
the  republic. 

I  walked  about  the  place  in  mute  wonder  and   admiration^ 


*U: 


iJ.^ 


!i 


f  ? 


i  -h 


'*) 


!■■'■ 

I 

i         * 


i 


1 


■ 


i 


\   % 


' 

1 

i' 

1-  .| 

76 


TH^  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


A  (lead  stillness  prevailed  around,  like  that  in  the  deserted 
streets  of  Pompeii.  No  sign  of  life  was  to  be  seen,  excepting 
now  and  then  a  hand,  and  a  long  pipe,  and  an  occasional  puff 
of  smoke,  out  of  the  window  of  some  "  lust-haus  "  overhansiiis 
a  miniature  canal ;  and  on  approaching  a  little  nearer,  the  periph- 
ery  in  profile  of  some  robustious  burgher. 

Among  the  grand  houses  pointed  out  to  me  were  those  of 
Claes  Bakker,  and  Cornelius  Bakker,  richly  carved  and  gilded, 
with  fiower  gardens  and  clipped  shrubberies  ;  and  that  of  the 
Great  Ditmus,  who,  my  poor  di^vil  cicerone  informed  me,  in  u 
whisper,  was  worth  two  millions  ;  all  these  were  mansions  shut 
up  from  the  world,  and  only  kept  to  be  cleaned.  After  having 
been  conducted  from  one  wonder  to  another  of  the  village,  1 
was  ushered  by  my  guide  into  the  grounds  and  gardens  of 
Mynheer  Broekker,  another  might}'  cJieese-manufacturer,  worth 
eighty  thousand  guilders  a  year.  I  had  repeatedly  been  struck 
with  the  similarity  of  all  that  I  had  seen  in  this  ahiphibious  little 
village,  to  the  buildings  and  landscapes  on  Chinese  platters  and 
tea-pots ;  but  here  I  found  the  similarity  complete ;  for  1  was 
told  that  these  gardens  were  modelled  upon  Van  Bramm's  de- 
scription of  those  oi'  Yuen  min  Yuen,  in  China.  Here  were 
serpentine  walks,  with  trellised  borders  ;  winding  canals,  with 
fanciful  Chinese  bridges  ;  (lower-beds  resembling  huge  baskets, 
with  the  fiower  of  "love-lies-bleeding"  falling  over  to  the 
ground.  But  mostly  had  the  fancy  af  Mynheer  Broekker  been 
displa3'od  about  a  stagnant  little  lake,  on  which  a  corpulent 
little  pinnace  lay  at  anchor.  On  the  border  was  a  cottage, 
within  which  were  a  wooden  man  ai.d  woman  seated  at  table, 
and  a  wooden  dog  beneath,  all  the  size  of  life  :  on  pressing  a 
spring,  the  woman  commenced  spinning,  and  the  dog  barked 
furiously.  On  the  lake  were  wooden  swans,  painted  to  the  life ; 
some  fioating,  others  on  the  nest  among  the  rushes  ;  while  a 
wooden  sportsman,  crouched  among  the  bushes,  was  preparing 
his  gun  to  take  deadly  aim.  In  another  part  of  the  garden 
was  a  dominie  in  his  clerical  robes,  with  wig,  pipe,  and  cocked 
hat ;  and  mandarins  with  nodiling  heads,  amid  re<l  lions,  green 
tigers,  and  blue  hares.  Last  of  all,  the  heathen  deities,  in  wood 
and  plaster,  male  and  female,  naked  and  bare-faced  as  usual, 
and  seeming  to  stare  with  wonder  at  finding  themselves  in  such 
strange  company. 

My  shabby  French  guide,  while  he  pointed  out  all  these 
mechanical  marvels  of  the  garden,  was  anxious  to  let  me  see 
that  he  liail  too  polite  a  Uuste  to  be  i»leased  with  them.  At 
every  new  knick-knack  he  would  screw  dowu  his  mouth,  shruy 


i>    ■  4 


BROEK. 


77 


up  his  shoulders,  take  a  pinch  of  smiff,  and  exclaim  :  **  Ma  foi, 
Monsieur,  ces  Uollandaia  soid  forts  pour  ces  betises  hi!  " 

To  attempt  to  gain  admission  to  any  of  these  stately  abodes 
was  out  of  the  question,  having  no  company  of  soldiers  to  en- 
force a  solicitation.  I  was  fortunate  enougii,  however,  through 
the  aid  of  my  guide,  to  make  my  way  into  the  kitchen  of  the 
illustrious  Ditmus,  and  I  question  whether  the  parlor  would 
have  proved  more  worthy  of  observation.  The  cook,  a  little 
wiry,  hook-nosed  woman,  worn  thin  by  incessant  action  and 
friction,  was  bustling  about  among  her  kettles  and  saucepans, 
with  the  scullion  at  her  heels,  both  clattering  in  wooden  shoes, 
which  were  as  clean  and  white  as  the  milk-pails ;  rows  of  ves- 
sels, of  brass  and  copper,  regiments  of  pewter  dishes,  and  port- 
ly porringers,  gave  resplendent  evidence  of  the  intensity  of 
their  cleanliness  ;  the  very  trammels  and  hangers  in  the  fire- 
place were  highly  scoured,  and  the  burnished  face  of  the  good 
Saint  Nicholas  shone  forth  from  the  iron  plate  of  the  chimney- 
back. 

Among  the  decorations  of  the  kitchon  was  a  printed  sheet 
of  woodcuts,  representing  the  various  holiday  customs  of  Hol- 
land, with  explanatory  rhymes.  Here  I  was  delighted  to  recog- 
nize the  jollities  of  New  Year's  Day ;  the  festivities  of  Paas 
and  Pinkster,  and  all  the  other  merry-makings  handed  down  iu 
iry  native  place  from  the  earliest  times  of  New  Amsterdam, 
and  which  had  been  such  bright  spots  in  the  year  in  my  child- 
hood. I  eagerly  made  myself  master  of  this  precious  docu- 
ment, for  a  trifling  consideration,  and  bore  it  off  as  a  memento 
of  the  place ;  though  I  questiou  if,  'u  so  doing,  I  did  not  carry 
off  with  me  the  whole  current  literature  of  Broek. 

I  must  not  omit  to  mention  that  this  village  is  the  paradise 
of  cows  as  well  as  men  ;  indeed  you  would  almost  suppose  the 
cow  to  be  as  much  an  object  of  worship  here,  as  the  bull  was 
among  the  ancient  Egyptians  ;  and  well  does  she  merit  it,  for 
she  is  in  fact  the  patroness  of  the  place.  The  same  scrupulous 
cleanliness,  however,  which  pervades  every  thing  else,  is  mani- 
fested iu  the  treatment  of  this  venerated  animal.  She  is  not 
permitted  to  perambulate  the  place,  but  in  winter,  when  she 
forsakes  the  rich  pasture,  a  well-built  house  is  provided  for 
her,  well  painted,  and  maintained  in  the  most  perfect  order, 
ller  stall  is  of  ample  dimensions  ;  the  floor  is  scrubbed  and 
liolished ;  her  liide  is  daily  curried  and  brushed  and  sponged  to 
lit'i-  heart's  content,  and  her  tail  is  daiiitilj'  tucked  up  to  the 
ceiling,  and  decorated  with  a  ribbon  ! 

On  my  way  back  through  the  village,  I  passed  the  house  ol 


•  'i ; 


J-  ' 


1,1 


78 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


if    ■ 


the  pre.  i;.v'i 
led  me  to 
inquiry,  I  >:ya8  toi 


Or  ireacher ;  a  very  comfortable  mansion,  which 
u  V  ell  of  the  state  of  religion  in  the  village.     On 


'iat  for  a  long  time  the  inhabitants  lived 


in  a  great  state  of  indifference  as  to  religious  matters  :  it  was 
in  vain  that  their  i)reac'hers  endeavored  to  arouse  their  thoughts 
as  to  a  future  state  :  the  joys  of  heaven,  as  commonly  depicted, 
were  but  little  to  their  taste.  At  length  a  dominie  appeared 
among  them  wlio  struck  out  in  a  different  vein.  He  depicted 
the  New  Jerusalem  as  a  place  all  smooth  and  level ;  with  beau- 
tiful dykes,  and  dirches,  and  canals  ;  and  houses  all  shining 
with  paint  and  varnish,  and  glazed  tiles ;  and  where  tiiere 
should  never  come  horse,  or  ass,  or  cat,  or  dog,  or  any  tiling 
that  could  make  noise  or  dirt;  but  there  should  be  nothing  but 
rubbing  and  scrubbing,  and  washing  and  painting,  and  gilding 
and  varnishing,  for  ever  and  ever,  amen  !  Since  that  time,  the 
good  housewives  of  Broek  have  all  turned  their  faces  Zion-ward. 


fi  *. 


I!    1 


SKETCHES   IN  PARIS   IN   1825. 

FROM  THE  TRAVELLING  NOTE-BOOK  OF  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 

A  Parisian  hotel  is  a  street  set  on  end,  the  grand  staircase 
forming  the  highway,  and  every  floor  a  separate  habitation. 
Let  me  describe  the  one  in  which  I  am  lodged,  which  may  serve 
as  a  specimen  of  its  class.  It  is  a  huge  quadrangular  pile  of 
stone,  built  round  a  spacious  paved  court.  The  ground  floor  is 
occupied  by  shops,  magazines,  and  domestic  oflSces.  Then 
comes  the  entresol,  with  low  ceilings,  short  windows,  and  dwarf 
chambers ;  then  succeed  a  succession  of  floors,  or  stories,  ris- 
ing one  above  the  other,  to  the  number  of  Mahomet's  heavens. 
Each  floor  is  like  a  distinct  mansion,  complete  in  itself,  with 
ante-chamber,  saloons,  dining  and  sleeping  rooms,  kitchen,  and 
other  conveniences  foi  the  accommodation  of  a  family.  Some 
floors  are  divided  into  two  or  more  suites  of  apartments.  Each 
apartment  has  its  main  door  of  entrance,  opening  upon  the 
staircase,  or  landing-places,  and  locked  like  a  street  door. 
Thus  several  families  and  numerous  single  persons  live  under 
the  same  roof,  totally  independent  of  each  other,  and  may  live 
so  for  years  without  holding  more  intercourse  than  is  kept  ui) 
in  other  cities  by  residents  in  the  same  street. 


SKETCHES  IN  PARIS  IN  ISSS. 


79 


on,  which 
age.  On 
lilts  lived 

1 :  it  was 

thoughts 
depicted, 
appeared 

depicted 

ith  beau- 

siiining 

re  there 
any  tiling 
thing  but 
id  gilding 
time,  the 
iion-ward. 


1 


rON,  GENT. 

1  staircase 
labitation. 
may  serve 
lar  pile  of 
ud  floor  is 
s.  Then 
ind  dwarf 
;ories,  ris- 

heavens. 
:self,  with 
chen,  and 
y.  Some 
ts.  Each 
upon  the 
eet  door, 
ive  under 

may  live 
}  kept  \\\] 


Like  the  great  world,  this  little  microcosm  has  its  gradations 
of  rank  and  style  and  importance.  The  Premier^  or  first  floor, 
with  its  grand  saloons,  lofty  ceilings,  and  splendid  furniture, 
is  decidedly  the  arlstocnitical  part  of  the  establishment.  The 
second  floor  is  scarcely  less  aristocratical  and  magniflcent ;  ♦ 
other  floors  go  on  lessening  in  splendor  as  they  gain  in  altituv.  >, 
and  end  with  the  attics,  the  region  of  petty  tailors,  clerks,  -nd 
sewing  girls.  To  make  the  filling  up  of  the  mansion  comju  », 
every  odd  nook  and  corner  is  fitted  up  as  a  joli  j)etit  a^i^rh* 
ment  iX  gart^on  (a  pretty  little  bachelor's  apartment),  thot  is  ,o 
say,  some  little  dark  inconvenient  nestling-place  for  a  poor 
devil  of  a  bachelor. 

The  whole  domain  is  shut  up  from  the  street  by  a  great 
porte-cochere,  or  portal,  calculated  for  the  admission  of  car- 
riages. This  consists  of  two  massy  folding-doors,  tliat  swing 
heavily  open  upon  a  spacious  entrance,  passing  under  the  front 
of  the  edifice  into  the  court-yard.  On  one  side  is  a  spacious 
staircase  leading  to  the  upper  apartments.  Immediately  with- 
out the  portal  is  the  porter's  lodge,  a  small  room  with  one  or 
two  bedrooms  adjacent,  for  the  accommodation  of  the  con,' 
cierge,  or  porter,  and  his  family.  This  is  one  of  the  most  im- 
portant functionaries  of  the  hotel.  He  is,  in  fact,  the  Cerberus 
of  the  establishment,  and  no  one  can  pass  in  or  out  without  his 
knowledge  and  consent.  The  porte-cocMre  in  general  is  fas- 
tened by  a  sliding  bolt,  from  which  a  cord  or  wire  passes  into 
the  porter's  lodge.  Whoever  wishes  to  go  out  must  speak  to 
the  porter,  who  draws  the  bolt.  A  visitor  from  without  gives 
a  single  rap  with  the  massive  knocker  ;  the  bolt  is  immediately 
drawn,  as  if  by  an  invisible  hand ;  the  door  stands  ajar,  the 
visitor  pushes  it  open,  and  enters.  A  face  presents  itself  at 
the  glass  door  of  the  porter's  little  chamber  ;  the  stranger  pro- 
nounces the  name  of  the  person  he  comes  to  see.  If  the  person 
or  family  is  of  importance,  occupying  the  first  or  second  floor, 
the  porter  sounds  a  bell  once  or  twice,  to  give  notice  that  a 
visitor  is  at  hand.  Tlie  stranger  in  the  mean  time  ascends  the 
great  staircase,  the  highway  common  to  all,  and  arrives  at  the 
outer  door,  equivalent  to  a  street  door,  of  the  suite  of  rooms 
inhabited  by  his  friends.  Beside  this  hangs  a  bell-cord,  with 
which  he  rings  for  admittance. 

"When  the  family  or  person  inquired  for  is  of  less  importance, 
or  lives  in  some  remote  part  of  the  mansion  less  easy  to  be 
apprised,  no  signal  is  given.  The  applicant  pronounces  the 
name  at  the  porter's  door,  and  is  told,  "  Montez  au  troisihne, 
ou  quatri^me;  sonnez  a  la  porte  d,  droite,  ou  d  gauche;  ("  As- 


b 


'   I 


I ' 


''fli 


80 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


cend  to  tlie  third  or  fotirth  story  ;  ring  the  bell  on  the  right  or 
left  hand  door,")  as  the  ease  may  be. 

The  porter  and  his  wife  act  as  domestics  to  such  of  the  in- 
mates of  tlie  mansion  as  do  not  keep  servants ;  making  their 
beds,  arranging  tlieir  rooms,  ligliting  tlieir  fires,  and  doing 
other  menial  oHices,  for  which  they  receive  a  monthly  stipend. 
They  are  also  in  confidential  intercourse  with  the  servants  of 
the  other  inmates,  and,  having  an  eye  on  all  the  in-comers  and 
out-goers,  are  tluis  enabled,  by  hook  and  by  crook,  to  learn  tlio 
secrets  and  domestic  history  of  every  member  of  the  little  terri- 
tory within  the  porte-cochh-e. 

The  porter's  lodge  is  accordingly  a  great  scene  of  gossip, 
where  all  the  private  affairs  of  this  interior  neighborhood  arc 
discussed.  The  court-yard,  also,  is  an  assembling  place  in  the 
evenings  for  the  servants  of  the  different  families,  and  a  sister- 
hood of  sewing  girls  from  the  entresols  and  the  attics,  to  play 
at  various  games,  and  dance  to  the  music  of  their  own  songs, 
ftnd  the  echoes  of  their  feet,  at  which  assemblages  the  porter's 
daughter  takes  the  lead  ;  a  fresh,  pretty,  buxom  girl,  generally 
called  "  La  Felite,"  though  almost  as  tall  as  a  grenadier.  These 
little  evening  gatherings,  so  cliaracteristic  of  this  gay  country, 
are  countenanced  by  the  various  families  of  the  matision,  wlio 
often  look  down  from  their  windows  and  balconies,  on  moonliglit 
evenings,  and  enjoy  the  simple  revels  of  their  domestics.  I 
must  observe,  however,  that  the  hotel  I  am  describing  Is  rather 
a  quiet,  retired  one,  where  most  of  the  inmates  are  permanent 
residents  from  year  to  year,  so  that  there  is  more  of  the  spirit 
of  neighborhood  than  in  the  bustling,  fashionable  hotels  in  the 
gay  parts  of  Paris,  which  are  continually  changing  their  inhabit- 
ants. 

MY  FRENCH  NEIGHBOR. 

I  OFTEN  amuse  myself  by  watching  from  my  window  (which, 
by  the  by,  is  tolerably  elevated),  the  movements  of  the  teem- 
ing little  world  below  me ;  and  as  I  am  on  sociable  terms  with 
the  porter  and  his  wife,  I  gather  from  them,  as  they  liglit  my 
fire,  or  serve  my  breakfast,  anecdotes  of  all  my  fellow  lodgers. 
I  have  been  somewhat  curious  in  studying  a  little  antique  French- 
man, who  occupies  one  of  the  jolie  chambres  d  (jarQon  already 
mentioned.  He  is  one  of  those  superannuated  veterans  who 
flourished  before  the  revolution,  and  have  weathered  all  the  storms 
of  Paris,  in  consequence,  very  probably,  of  being  fortunately 
too  insignificant  to  attract  attention.  He  has  a  small  ineonu', 
which  he  manages  with  th^  skill  of  a  French  economist ;  appro- 


SKETCHES  IN  PARIS  7JV  18g5. 


81 


right 


or 


f  the  in- 
ing  their 
i<l  (loinjr 
stipeiKJ. 
vants  of 
ners  iind 
earn  the 
ttle  terri- 

gossip, 

lood  are 

?e  in  the 

a  sister- 

,  to  play 

n  songs, 

porter's 

generally 

.    These 

country, 

sion,  who 

iioonlight 

sties.     I 

Is  rather 

ermaneut 

the  sph'it 

Is  in  the 

:•  inhabit- 


(which, 
lie  teeni- 
rins  with 
light  my 
lodgers. 
French- 

already 
ans  who 
e  storms 
Innately 
jneonie, 
;  appro- 


priating 80  much  for  his  lodgings,  so  much  for  his  meals ;  so 
much  for  his  visits  to  St.  Cloud  and  Versailles,  and  so  much  for 
his  seat  at  the  theatre.  He  has  resided  in  the  hotel  for  years, 
and  always  in  the  same  chamber,  which  he  furnishes  at  his  own 
expense.  The  decorations  of  the  room  mark  his  various  ages. 
There  are  some  gallant  pictures  which  he  hung  up  in  his  younger 
(lays ;  with  a  portrait  of  a  lady  of  rank,  whom  he  speaks  ten- 
derly  of,  dressed  in  the  old  French  taste  ;  and  a  pretty  opera 
dancer,  pirouetting  in  a  hoop  petticoat,  who  lately  died  at  a  good 
old  age.  In  a  corner  of  this  picture  is  st'iCk  a  prescription  for 
rheumatism,  and  below  it  stands  an  easy-chair.  He  has  a  small 
parrot  at  the  window,  to  amuse  him  when  within  doors,  and  a 
pug  dog  to  accompany  him  in  his  daily  peregrinations.  While 
I  am  writing  he  is  crossing  the  court  to  go  out.  He  is  attired 
in  his  best  coat,  of  sky-blue,  and  is  doubtless  bound  for  the 
Tuilories.  His  hair  is  dressed  in  the  old  style,  with  powdered 
ear-locks  and  a  pig-tail.  His  little  dog  trips  after  him,  some- 
times on  four  legs,  sometimes  on  three,  and  looking  as  if  his 
leather  small-clothes  were  too  tight  for  him.  Now  the  old  gen- 
tleman stops  to  have  a  word  with  an  old  crony  who  lives  in  the 
entresol,  and  is  just  returning  from  his  promenade.  Now  they 
take  a  pinch  of  snuff  together  ;  now  they  pull  out  huge  red  cotton 
haiulkerehiefs  (those  "ihigs  of  abomination,"  as  they  have  well 
been  called)  and  blow  their  noses  most  sonorously.  Now  they 
turn  to  make  remarks  upon  their  two  little  dogs,  who  are  ex- 
changing the  morning's  salutation  ;  now  they  part,  and  my  old 
gentleman  stoi)s  to  have  a  passing  word  with  the  porter's  wife ; 
and  now  he  sallies  forth,  and  is  fairly  launched  upon  the  town 
for  the  day. 

No  man  is  so  methodical  as  a  complete  idler,  and  none  so 
scrupulous  in  measuring  and  portioning  out  his  time  as  he  whose 
time  is  worth  nothing.  The  old  gentleman  in  question  has  his 
exact  hour  for  rising,  and  for  shaving  himself  by  a  small  mirror 
hung  against  his  casement.  He  sallies  forth  at  a  certain  hour 
every  morning  to  take  his  cup  of  coffee  and  his  roll  at  a  certain 
cafe',  where  he  reads  the  papers.  He  has  been  a  regular  admirer 
of  the  lady  who  presides  at  the  bar,  and  always  stops  to  have  a 
little  badinage  with  her  en  jmssant.  He  has  his  regular  walks 
on  the  Boulevards  and  in  the  Palais  Royal,  where  he  sets  his 
watch  by  the  petard  fired  off  by  the  sun  at  mid-day.  He  has 
his  daily  resort  in  the  Garden  of  the  Tuileries,  to  meet  with  a 
knot  of  veteran  idlers  like  himself,  who  talk  on  pretty  much  the 
same  subjects  whenever  they  meet.  He  has  been  present  at  all 
the  sights  and  shows  and  rejoicings  in  Paris  for  the  last  fifty 


I    [ 


fv  •\ 


i'ty 


'  !i: 


'iL 


82 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


years ;  lias  witnessed  ♦li^  great  events  of  the  revolution  ;  the 
guillotining  of  the  king  and  queen  ;  the  coronation  of  Honaparte ; 
the  capture  of  Paris,  and  the  restoration  of  the  Hourbons.  All 
these  he  spedvs  of  with  the  coolness  of  a  theatrical  critic ;  and 
I  question  whether  he  has  not  been  gratified  by  each  in  its  Imn ; 
not  from  any  inherent  love  of  tumult,  but  from  that  insatiahle 
appetite  for  spectacle  which  prevails  among  the  inhabit:mls  of 
this  metropolis.  I  have  been  amused  with  a  farce,  in  which  one 
of  these  systematic  old  triflers  is  represented.  He  sings  a  soii<t 
detailing  his  whole  day's  round  of  insignificant  occupations,  and 
goes  to  bed  delighted  with  the  idea  that  his  next  day  will  be  an 
exact  repetition  of  the  same  routine  : 

"  Je  me  couchc  le  Boir, 
Enchants  du  puiivoir 
Recummeiicur  inoii  train 
Lc  leudemaiu 
Matin." 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  AT  PARIS. 

In  another  part  of  the  hotel  a  handsome  suite  of  rooms  \s 
occupied  by  an  old  English  gentleman,  of  great  probity,  some 
understanding,  and  very  considerable  crustiness,  who  has  come 
to  France  to  live  economically.  He  has  a  very  fair  property, 
but  his  wife,  being  of  that  blessed  kind  compared  in  Scripture 
to  the  fruitful  vine,  has  overwhelmed  him  with  a  family  of 
buxom  daughters,  who  hang  clustering  about  him,  ready  to  be 
gathered  by  any  hand.  He  is  seldom  to  be  seen  in  pul)lic  with- 
out one  hanging  on  each  arm,  and  smiling  on  all  the  world, 
whi. .  his  own  mouth  is  drawn  down  at  each  corner  like  a  mas- 
tiff's  with  internal  growling  at  every  thing  about  him.  He  ad- 
heres rigidly  to  English  fashion  in  dress,  and  trudges  about  in 
long  gaiters  and  broad-brimmed  hat ;  while  his  daughters  almost 
overshadow  him  with  feathers,  flowers,  and  French  bonnets. 

He  contrives  to  keep  up  an  atmosphere  of  English  hal)its, 
opinions,  and  prejudices,  and  to  carry  a  semblance  of  London 
into  the  very  heart  of  Paris.  His  mornings  are  spent  at  Gali- 
gnaui's  news-rooms,  where  he  forms  one  of  a  knot  of  inveterate 
quidnuncs,  who  read  the  same  articles  over  a  dozen  times  in  a 
dozen  different  papers.  He  generally  dines  in  company  with 
some  of  his  own  countrymen,  and  they  have  what  is  called  a 
"comfortable  sitting"  after  dinner,  in  the  English  fashion, 
drinking  wine,  discussing  the  news  of  the  London  papers,  uiid 
canvassing  the  French  character,   tlie  French  metropolis,  and 


SKETCHES   IN   PARIS   IN   18g5. 


83 


lution  ;  thp 
Honapiirti' ; 
•boiis.  All 
d-itic;  and 
i'l  its  turn ; 
t  insatiahle 
lubitaiils  of 
1  which  one 

incrs  a  SOIinr 

atioiis,  and 
will  be  UD 


)f  rooms  is 
ohity.  some 
)  has  come 
ir  property, 
n  Scripture 
I  family  of 
ready  to  he 
ill  1)1  ic  witli- 
the  world, 
Iko  a  mas- 
1.     Ho  ad- 
es  about  in 
iters  almost 
on  nets, 
ish  iial)its, 
of  London 
it  at  Cali- 
'  inveterate 
times  in  a 
ipany  with 
is  called  a 
h    fashion, 
apers,  and 
ipolis,  and 


the  French  revolution,  ending  with  a  unanimous  admission  ot 
Knglish  eourafje,  Enc;lish  nioralitv,  Pinglish  cookery,  English 
wea!*h,  the  magnitude  of  London,  and  the  ingratitude  of  the 
French. 

His  evenings  are  chiefly  spent  at  a  club  of  his  countrymen, 
whore  the  London  papers  are  taken.  Sometimes  his  daughters 
entice  him  to  the  theatres,  but  not  often.  lie  abuses  French 
tragedy,  as  all  fustian  and  bom!)ast.  Talma  as  a  ranter,  and 
Dnchosnois  as  a  mere  termagant.  It  is  true  his  car  is  not  suffl- 
ciontly  familiar  with  the  language  to  understand  French  verse, 
and  he  generally  goes  to  sleep  during  the  performance.  The 
wit  of  tile  French  comedy  is  flat  and  pointless  to  him.  He 
would  not  give  one  of  Miinden's  wry  faces,  or  Liston's  inex- 
pressible looks,  for  the  whole  of  it. 

Ho  will  not  admit  that  Paris  has  any  advantage  over  London. 
The  Seine  is  a  muddy  rivulet  in  comparison  with  the  Thames  ; 
the  West  End  of  London  surpasses  the  finest  parts  of  the  French 
capital ;  and  on  some  one's  observing  that  there  was  a  very  thick 
fog  out  of  doors  :  "  Pish  !  "  said  he,  crustily,  "  it's  nothing  to 
the  fogs  we  have  in  London." 

He  lias  infinite  trouble  in  bringing  his  table  into  any  thing  like 
conformity  to  English  rule.  With  his  liquors,  it  is  true,  he  is 
tolerably  successful.  He  procures  London  porter,  and  a  stock  of 
port  and  sherry,  at  considerable  expense ;  for  he  oViserves  that 
lie  cannot  oLand  those  cursed  thin  French  wines,  they  dilute  his 
l)lood  so  much  as  to  give  him  the  rheumatism.  As  to  their  white 
wines,  h'>  stigmatizes  them  as  mere  substitutes  for  cider ;  and 
as  to  claret,  wh  "  it  would  be  port  if  it  could."  He  has  con- 
tinual quarrels  with  his  French  cook,  whom  he  renders  wretched 
]»y  insisting  on  his  conforming  to  Mrs.  Glass  ;  for  it  is  easier  to 
convert  a  Frencliin:iii  from  his  religion  than  his  cookery.  The 
poor  fellow,  by  dint  of  repeated  efforts,  once  brought  himself  to 
servo  up  ros  hif  suflicientl}'  raw  to  suit  what  he  considered  the 
cannibal  taste  of  his  master ;  but  then  he  could  not  refrain,  at 
the  last  moment,  adding  some  exquisite  sauce,  that  put  the  old 
gentleman  in  a  fury. 

He  detests  wood-fires,  and  has  procured  a  quantity  of  coal  • 
but  not  having  a  grate,  he  is  obliged  to  burn  it  on  the  hearth. 
Here  he  sits  poking  and  stirring  the  fire  with  one  end  of  a  tongs, 
while  the  room  is  as  murky  as  a  smithy  ;  railing  at  F'rench  chim- 
neys, French  masons,  and  French  architects  ;  giving  a  poke  at 
the  end  of  every  sentence,  as  though  he  were  stirring  up  the 
Very  bowels  of  the  delinquents  he  is  anathematizing.  He  lives 
in  a  state  militant  with  inanimate  objects  urouud  him  ;  gets  into 


,\  ■ 


!    \ 


\  i 


84 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


n  t 


high  dudgeon  with  doors  and  casements,  because  they  will  not 
come  under  English  law,  and  has  inii)lacable  feuds  with  suii-iry 
refractory  pieces  of  furniture.  Among  these  is  one  in  particular 
with  which  he  is  sure  to  have  a  high  quarrel  every  time  he  tiocs 
to  dress.  It  is  a  commcde,  one  of  those  smooth,  polished,  plaus- 
ible pieces  of  French  furniture,  that  have  the  perversity  of  live 
hundred  devils.  Each  drawer  has  a  will  of  its  own  ;  will  oj)cn 
or  not,  just  as  the  whim  takes  it,  and  sets  lock  and  key  at  de- 
fiance. Sometimes  a  drawer  will  refuse  to  yield  to  cither  pcr- 
s'uision  or  force,  and  will  part  with  both  handles  rather  than 
yield  ;  another  will  come  out  in  the  most  coy  and  coquettish 
manner  imaginable  ;  elbowing  along,  zigzag  ;  one  corner  retreat- 
ing as  the  other  advances  ;  making  a  thousand  diHieulties  anil 
objections  at  every  move ;  until  the  old  gentleman,  out  of  all 
patience,  gives  a  sudden  jerk,  and  brings  drawer  and  contents 
into  the  middle  of  the  Hoor.  Ilis  hostility  to  this  inilucky  piece 
of  furniture  increases  every  day,  as  if  incensed  that  it  does  not 
grow  better.  He  is  like  the  fretful  invalid  who  cursed  his  bed, 
that  the  longer  he  lay  the  harder  i*  grew.  The  only  benefit  he 
has  derived  from  the  quarrel  is,  that  it  has  furnished  him  with  a 
crusty  joke,  which  he  utters  on  all  occasions.  He  swears  tiiat 
a  French  commode  is  the  most  iiicotnmodioHfi  thing  in  existence, 
and  that  although  the  nation  cannot  make  a  joint-stool  that  will 
stand  steady,  yet  they  are  always  talking  of  every  thing's  being 
perfect  ionie. 

His  servants  understand  his  humor,  and  avail  themselves  of 
it.  He  was  one  day  disturbed  by  a  i)ertinacious  rattling  and 
shaking  at  one  of  the  doors,  and  bawled  out  in  an  angry  tone 
to  know  the  cause  of  tlie  disturbance.  •'  Sir,"  said  the  foot- 
man, testily,  "it's  this  confounded  French  lock  !  "  ''Ah  !  "  said 
the  old  gentleman,  pacified  by  this  hit  at  the  nation,  "  1  thought 
tliere  was  something  French  at  the  bottom  of  it !  " 


ENGLISH  AND  FRENCH  CHARACTER. 

As  I  am  a  mere  looker-on  in  Europe,  and  hold  myself  as 
much  as  possible  aloof  from  its  quarrels  and  prejudices,  I  feel 
something  like  one  oveWooking  a  game,  who,  without  any  great 
skill  of  his  own,  can  occasionally  perceive  the  Idunders  of 
much  abler  players.  This  neutrality  of  feeling  enables  me  to 
enjoy  the  contrasts  of  character  presented  in  tiiis  time  of  gen- 
eral peace,  when  the  various  people  of  Europe,  who  have  so  long 
been  sundered  by  wars,  are  brought  together  and  placeil  side 
by  side  iu  this  great  gathering-place  of  nations.     No  greater 


SKETCHES  IN  PARIS  IN  18S5. 


86 


hey  will  not 

witli  suii.iry 

in  purtictilur 

litne  ho  n;oes 

slied,  plans- 

'I'sity  of  five 

I ;  will  open 

key  at  de- 

either  per- 

rather  llian 

!  eofuK'ttish 

nu'r  rclreat- 

ieiilties  and 

out  of  all 

nd  contents 

iiluc'ky  piece 

t  it  does  not 

led  bis  bod, 

y  benefit  he 

I  him  with  a 

swears  that 

n  existoneo, 

^ol  that  will 

ling's  being 

lemselves  of 
rattling  and 
angi-y  tone 
id  the  foot- 
'Ab!"said 
"1  thought 


myself  as 
lices,  J  fool 
t  any  great 
•hinders  of 
ibles  me  to 
uie  of  gen- 
ave  so  lon<r 
placed  sitU) 
No  greater 


contratit,  however,  is  exhibited  than  that  of  the  French  and 
EngHsh.  The  peace  has  deluged  this  gay  capital  with  English 
visitors  of  all  ranks  and  conditions.  They  throng  every  place 
of  curiosity  and  amusement ;  fill  the  public  gardens,  the  gal- 
leries, the  caf(5s,  saloons,  theatres  ;  always  lierding  together, 
never  associating  with  the  French,  The  two  nations  are  like 
two  threads  of  different  colors,  tangled  together  but  never 
blended. 

In  fact,  they  present  a  continual  antithesis,  and  seem  to  value 
themselves  upon  l)eing  unlike  each  other ;  yet  each  have  their 
peeuliar  merits,  which  should  entitle  them  to  each  other's  esteem. 
The  French  intellect  is  quick  and  active.  It  flashes  its  way  into 
a  subject  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning ;  seizes  ui)on  remote 
conclusions  with  a  sudden  bound,  and  its  deductions  are  almost 
intuitive.  The  English  intellect  is  less  rapid,  but  more  perse- 
vering ;  less  sudden,  but  more  sure  in  its  deductions.  The 
quickness  and  mobility  of  the  French  enable  them  to  find  en- 
joyment in  the  multiplicity  of  sensations.  They  speak  and  act 
more  from  immediate  impressions  than  from  reflection  and  med- 
itation. They  are  therefore  more  social  and  communicative ; 
more  fond  of  society',  and  of  places  of  pul)lic  resort  and  amuse- 
ment. An  P^^nglishman  is  more  reflect 'v;^  in  his  habits.  He 
lives  in  the  world  of  his  own  thoughts,  and  seems  more  self- 
existent  and  self  dependent.  He  loves  tlie  quiet  of  his  own 
apartment ;  even  when  abroad,  he  in  a  manner  makes  a  little 
solitude  around  him,  by  his  silence  and  reserve  ;  he  moves  about 
shy  and  solitary,  and  as  it  were  buttoned  up,  body  and  soul. 

The  French  are  great  optimists  ;  they  seize  upon  every  good 
as  it  flies,  and  revel  in  the  passing  pleasure.  The  Englishman 
is  too  apt  to  neglect  the  present  good,  in  preparing  against  the 
possible  evil.  However  adversities  may  lower,  let  the  sun  shine 
but  for  a  moment,  and  forth  sallies  the  mercurial  Frenchman, 
in  holiday  dress  and  holiday  spirits,  gay  as  a  butterfly,  as  though 
his  sunshine  were  perpetual ;  but  let  the  sun  beam  never  so 
brightly,  so  there  be  but  a  cloud  in  the  horizon,  the  wary  Eng- 
lishman ventures  forth  distrustfully,  with  his  umbrella  m  his 
hand. 

The  Frenchman  has  a  wonderful  facility  at  turning  small 
things  to  advantage.  No  one  can  be  gay  and  luxurious  on 
smaller  means  ;  no  one  ictiuires  less  expense  to  i)e  liMppy.  He 
praetisi  s  a  kind  of  gilding  in  his  style  of  living,  and  liuiiiniers 
out  every  guinea  into  gold  leaf.  The  Englishman,  on  the  con- 
trary, is  expensive  in  his  habits,  and  expensive  in  his  enjo}'- 
uients.     lie  values  every  thing,  whether  useful  or  ornamental, 


;  1 


V' 


i  < 


t.*|] 


86 


THE  CRAYON   PAPER fi. 


!   ?J  ^ 


hy  what  it  costs.  lie  has  no  satisfaction  in  show,  unless  it  he 
solid  and  complete.  Every  thing  goes  with  him  by  the  square 
foot.  Whatever  display  he  makes,  the  depth  is  sure  to  equal 
the  surface. 

The  Frenchman's  habitation,  like  himself,  is  open,  cheorful, 
bustling,  and  noisy.  He  lives  in  a  part  of  a  great  hotel,  with 
wide  portal,  paved  court,  a  spacious  dirty  stone  staircase,  and 
a  family  on  every  floor.  All  is  clatter  and  chatter.  lie  is  good- 
humored  and  talkative  with  his  servants,  sociab'o  with  his  neigh- 
bors, and  complaisant  to  all  the  world.  Anybody  has  access 
to  himself  and  his  apartments  ;  his  very  bedroom  is  open  to 
visitors,  whatever  may  be  its  state  of  confusion  ;  and  all  this 
not  from  any  peculiarly  hospitable  feeling,  but  from  that  coiii- 
municative  hal)it  which  predominates  over  his  character. 

The  Englishman,  on  the  contrary,  ensconces  himself  in  a  snug 
brick  mansion,  which  he  has  all  t')  himself ;  locks  the  front 
door;  puts  broken  bottles  along  his  walls,  and  spring-guns  and 
man-traps  in  his  gardens  ;  shrouds  himself  with  tree:^  and  window- 
curtains  ;  exults  in  iiis  quiet  and  privacy,  and  seems  disposed  to 
keep  out  noise,  daylight,  and  company.  His  house,  like  himself, 
has  a  reserved,  inhospitable  exterior  ;  yet  whoever  gains  admit- 
tance is  apt  to  find  a  warm  heart  and  warm  fireside  within. 

The  Fiench  excel  in  wit,  the  English  in  humor ;  the  French 
have  gayer  fancy,  the  English  richer  imagination.  The  former 
are  full  of  sensibility  ;  easily  moved,  and  prone  to  sudden  and 
great  excitement ;  but  their  excitement  is  not  durable  ;  the  Eng- 
lish are  more  phlegmatic;  not  so  readily  afTec^d,  but  capal)le 
of  being  aroused  to  great  enthusiasm.  The  faults  of  these 
opposite  temperaments  are  that  the  vivacity  of  the  French  is 
apt  to  sparkle  up  and  be  frothy,  the  gravity  of  the  English  to 
settle  down  and  grow  muddy.  When  t!i(?  two  characters  can 
be  fixed  in  a  medium,  the  French  kept  from  etTerveseence  and 
the  English  from  stagnation,  both  will  be  found  exceilent. 

This  contrast  of  character  may  also  be  noticed  in  the  great 
concerns  of  the  two  nations.  Tin;  ardent  Frenchman  is  all  for 
military  renown  ;  he  fights  for  glory,  that  is  to  say  for  success 
in  arms.  For,  provided  the  national  flag  is  victorious,  he  cares 
little  about  the  expense,  the  injustice,  or  the  inutility  of  tlio 
war.  It  is  wonderful  how  the  poorest  Frenchman  will  revel  on 
a  triumphant  bulletin  ;  a  great  victory  is  meat  and  <lrink  to  him  ; 
and  at  the  sight  of  a  military  sovereign,  bringing  home  cai)tured 
cannon  and  captured  standards,  he  throws  up  his  greasy  cup  in 
the  air,  and  is  ready  to  jump  out  of  liis  wooden  shoes  for  joy. 

John  Bull,  on  the  contrary,  is  a  reasoning,  considerate  per 


SKETCHES  IN   PARIS  IN  1825. 


87 


nloss  it  he 
the  square 
•e  to  equal 

1,  cheerful, 
hotel,  witii 
irease,  and 
He  is  good- 
1  his  neigli- 
has  a(!oess 
is   open  to 
,nd  all  this 
that  coul- 
ter. 

If  in  a  snuG; 
the  front 
g-guns  and 
nd  window- 
disposed  to 
ike  himself, 
ains  admit- 
vvlthin. 
the  French 
Tlie  former 
sudden  and 
e  ;  the  Eng- 
but  capable 
ts  of  these 
?  French  is 
English  to 
raeters  can 
•see nee  and 
'ileiit. 

n  the  great 
m  is  all  for 
for  success 
us,  he  cares 
ility  of  the 
'ill  revel  on 
"ink  to  him ; 
:ne  captured 
■easy  cap  in 
•s  for  joy. 
iderate  po' 


don.  If  he  does  wrong,  it  is  m  the  most  rational  way  imagin- 
able. He  fights  because  the  good  of  the  world  requires  it.  II(! 
is  a  moral  person,  and  makes  war  upon  his  neighbor  for  the 
nuiintenance  of  peace  and  good  order,  and  sound  principles. 
He  is  a  money-making  personage,  and  fights  for  the  prosperity 
of  commerce  and  manufactures.  Thus  the  two  nations  have 
been  lighting,  time  out  of  mind,  for  glory  and  good.  The 
French,  in  pursuit  of  glory,  have  had  their  capital  twice  taken ; 
and  John,  in  pursuit  of  goru],  has  run  himself  over  head  and 
ears  in  debt. 


THE  TUILERIES  AND    [VINDSOIi  CASTLE. 

I  HAVE  sometimes  fancied  I  could  discover  national  charac- 
teristics in  national  edifices.  In  the  Chateau  of  the  Tuileries, 
for  instance,  I  perceive  the  same  jumble  of  contrarieiies  that 
marks  the  French  character :  the  same  whimsical  mixture  of 
the  great  and  the  little  ;  the  splendid  and  the  paltry,  the  sub- 
lime and  the  grotesque.  On  visiting  this  famous  pile,  the  first 
thing  that  strikes  both  eye  and  ear  is  military  display.  The 
courts  glitter  with  steel-clad  soldiery,  and  resound  with  the 
tramp  of  hors(\  the  roll  of  drum,  and  the  bray  of  trumpet. 
Dismounted  guardsmen  patrol  its  arcades,  with  loaded  carl)ines, 
jingling  spurs,  and  clanking  sabres.  Gigantic  grenadiers  are 
posted  about  its  staircases  ;  young  oflicers  of  the  guards  loll 
from  the  balconies,  or  lounge  in  groups  upon  the  terraces ;  and 
tlie  gleam  of  l)ayonet  from  window  to  window,  shows  that  sen- 
tinels are  pacing  up  and  down  the  corridors  and  ante-chambers. 
The  first  floor  is  brilliant  with  the  splendors  of  a  court.  French 
taste  has  tasked  itself  in  ad'^rning  the  sumptuous  suites  of 
apartments  ;  nor  are  the  gilded  chapel  and  the  splendid  theatre 
forgotten,  where  piety  and  pleasure  are  next-door  neighbors, 
and  harmonizes  together  with  perfect  French  bienseance. 

Mingled  up  with  all  this  regal  and  military  magnificence,  is 
a  world  of  whimsical  and  makeshift  detail.  A  great  part  of 
the  huge  edifice  is  cut  up  into  little  chambers  and  nestling- 
places  for  retainers  of  the  court,  dependants  on  retainers,  and 
liangers-on  of  dependants.  Some  are  squeezed  into  narro\V 
entresols,  those  h)W,  dark,  intermediate  slices  of  apartments 
between  floors,  the  inhabitants  of  which  seem  shoved  in  edge- 
ways, like  books  between  narrow  shelves  ;  others  are  perched 
like  swallows,  under  the  eaves  ;  the  high  roofs,  too,  which  are 
as  tall  and  steep  as  a  French  cocked-hat,  have  rows  of  little 
dormer  windows,  tier  above  tier,  just  large  enough   to  admit 


■i  i' 


M 


88 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


\    I 


HI 


light  and  air  for  some  dormitory,  and  to  enable  its  occupant 
to  peep  out  at  the  sity.  P>en  to  the  very  ridge  of  the  roof, 
may  be  seen  here  and  there  one  of  these  air-lioles,  with  a  stove- 
pipe beside  it,  to  carry  otl'  tlie  smoke  from  the  handful  of  fuel 
with  which  its  weazen-faced  tenant  simmers  his  demi-tasse  of 
cotfee. 

On  approaching  the  palace  from  the  Pont  Koyal,  you  take  in 
at  a  glance  all  the  various  strata  of  inhabitants  ;  the  gurieteer 
in  the  roof ;  the  retainer  in  the  entresol ;  the  courtiers  a1  the 
casements  of  the  royal  apartments  ;  while  on  the  groi^;  d-iloor 
a  steam  of  savory  odors  and  a  score  or  two  of  cooks,  ii^  white 
caps,  bobbing  their  heads  about  the  windows,  betray  that  scien- 
tific and  all-important  laboratory,  the  Koyal  Kitchen. 

Go  into  the  grand  ante-chamber  of  the  ro^'al  apartinents  on 
Sunday  :ind  see  the  mixture  of  Old  and  New  France  .;  the  old 
emigres,  returned  with  the  Bourbons  ;  little  witheretl.  spindlc- 
ehanked  old  noblemen,  dud  in  court  dresses  thiit  lijjiured  in 
these  saloons  before  the  revolution,  and  have  been  c.'!.ri?fully 
treasured  up  during  their  exile  :  with  tlie  solitaires  and  ailes  dc 
jngeon  of  former  days  ;  and  t?K'  ' ourt  swords  strutting  out  be- 
hind, like  pins  "tuck  through  dry  '  jctles.  See  them  liaunting 
the  scenes  of  their  iornier  s|;i(';id"',  in  hopes  of  a  restitution  of 
estates,  like  ghosts  haunting  the  vicinity  of  buried  treasure ; 
while  around  them  you  see  the  Young  France,  that  have  giown 
up  in  the  ligliting  school  of  Napoleon  ;  all  ecpiipped  en  militaire  ; 
tall,  hardy,  frank,  vigorous,  sun-burned,  lierce-whiskered ;  with 
tramping  boots,  towering  crests,  and  glittering  breast-plates. 

It  is  incredible  the  number  of  ancient  and  hereditary  feeders 
on  royalty  said  to  be  housed  in  this  establishment.  Indeed  ail 
the  royal  palaces  abound  with  noble  families  returned  froui 
exile,  and  who  have  nestling-places  allotted  them  while  they 
await  the  restoration  of  their  estates,  or  the  much-talked-ol' 
law  indemnity.  Some  of  them  have  fine  quarters,  but  po(M' 
living.  Some  families  have  l)ut  five  or  six  hundred  francs  a 
^-vdr,  and  all  their  retinue  consists  of  a  servant  woman.  With 
all  this,  they  maintain  all  their  old  aristocratical  hauteur,  look 
down  with  vast  '  jntempt  upon  the  opulent  families  which  have 
risen  f'ince  the  revolution  ;  stigmatize  them  all  as  parvenus,  oi 
upstarts,  and  refuse  to  visit  them. 

In  regarding  the  exterior  of  the  Tuileries,  with  all  its  out- 
W'vd  signs  of  internal  populousnesa,  I  have  often  thought  wlial 
a  rare  sight  it  would  be  to  see  it  suildenly  unroofed,  and  all  its 
nooks  and  corners  laid  open  to  tiie  day.  It  would  bt^  like  turn- 
ujg  up  the  stump  of  an  old  tree,  and  dislodging  the  world  of 


SKETCHES  IN  PARIS  IN  18X5. 


89 


occupant 
the  roof, 
a  stove- 
1  of  fuel 
-tassp.  of 

u  take  in 

giin-eteer 
rs  a1  the 
Mi~i!oor 
\v  white 
at  scieu- 

nonts  on 

tlie  old 

spindle- 

igufoil   ill 

('.')  r^.' fully 
[I  ailes  de 
n;  out  be- 

hauuting 
itdtion  of 
treasure ; 
ve  grown 
nilitaire ; 
•ed  ;  with 
elates. 
y  feeders 
udeed  all 
led  froui 
hile  they 
talked-of 
but  poor 

francs  a 
3.  With 
eur,  look 
lich  have 
venus,  01 

,  its  out- 
glit  wlial 
1(1  all  its 
ike  turn- 
world  of 


grubs,  and  ants,  and  beetles  lodged  beneath.  Indeed,  there  is 
.1  scandalous  anecdote  current,  that  in  the  time  of  one  of  the 
petty  plots,  when  petards  were  exploded  under  the  windows 
of  the  Tuileries,  the  police  made  a  sudden  investigation  of 
the  palace  at  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  a  scene  of  the 
jnost  whimsical  confusion  ?nsued.  Hosts  of  supernumerary 
inhabitants  were  found  foisted  into  the  huge  edifice 


every 


rat- 


hole  had  its  oc('Ui):uit ;  and  [jlaces  which  had  ])een  considered  as 
tenanted  only  l>y  spiders,  were  found  crowded  with  a  surrepti- 
tious population.  It  is  added,  that  many  ludicrous  accidents 
occurred  ;  great  scampering  and  slamming  of  doors,  and  whisk« 
iiig  away  in  night-gowns  and  slippers  ;  and  several  persons, 
who  were  found  by  accident  in  their  neighbors'  chambers, 
evinced  indubitable  astonishment  at  the  circumstance. 

As  1  have  fancied  I  could  read  the  French  character  in  the 
national  jialace  of  the  Tuileries,  so  I  have  pictured  to  myself 
some  of  the  traits  of  John  IJull  in  his  royal  abode  of  Windsor 
Castle.  The  Tuileries,  outwardly  a  peaceful  palace,  is  in  effect 
a  swaggering  military  hold  ;  while  the  old  castle,  on  the  con- 
trary, in  sj)ite  of  its  bullying  look,  is  completely  under  petticoat 
goveriunent.  Every  corner  and  nook  is  built  up  into  some 
snug,  cosey  nestling-place,  some  ''procreant  cradle,"  not  ten- 
anted i)y  meagre  expectants  or  whiskered  warriors,  but  by  sleek 
placemen  ;  knowing  realizers  of  present  pay  and  present  pu<'- 
ding;  wiio  seem  placed  there  not  to  kill  and  destroy,  but  o 
breed  and  multiply.  Nursery-maids  and  children  shine  v^.ih 
rosv  facts  at  the  windows,  and  swarm  al)Out  the  courts  and  ter- 
races. Tlu'  very  soldiers  have  a  pacific  look,  and  when  off  luty 
maybe  seen  loitering  about  the  place  with  the  nursery-maids; 
not  making  love  to  them  in  the  gay  gallant  style  of  the  ''rench 
soldiery,  but  with  infinite  bonhomie  aiding  them  to  take  oare  of 
the  broods  of  ehihlren. 

Though  the  old  castle  is  in  decay,  every  thing  about  it  thrives  ; 
the  very  crevices  of  the  walls  are  tenanted  by  swallows,  rooks, 
and  pigeons,  all  sure  of  (piiet  lodgement ;  the  ivy  strikes  its 
roots  deep  in  the  tissures,  and  nourishes  about  the  mouldering 
lower.i  Thus  it  is  with  honest  John  ;  according  to  his  own 
aiTount,  he  is  ever  going  to  ruhi,  yet  every  thing  that  liv  -^  on 
him,  thrives  and  waxes  fat.  He  would  fain  be  a  soldie.  and 
swauger  like  his  neighbors ;  but  his  domestic,  quiet-loving, 
uxorious  nature  continually  gets  the  upper  hand  ;  and  though 


■I     i! 


(    ■ 


1  The  above  Kkclch  wan  written  before  the  thorough  repairs  ind  magnificent »ddltlOM 
thai  have  boeii  luadu  of  late  years  to  Wiudnor  Caiille. 


90 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


fr 

mill 


he  may  mount  his  liclmet  and  gird  on  his  sword,  yet  he  is  Rpi 
to  sink  into  the  plodding,  pains-taking  father  of  a  family  ;  wit'i 
a  troop  of  children  at  his  heels,  and  h^s  women-kind  hanging 
on  each  arm. 

THE  FIELD  OF  WATERLOO. 

I  HAVE  spoken  heretofore  with  some  levity  of  the  contrast 
that  exists  between  the  English  and  French  character ;  but  it 
deserves  more  serious  consideration.  They  are  two  great 
nations  of  modern  times  most  diametrically  opposed,  and  most 
worthy  of  each  other's  rivalry ;  essentially  distinct  in  '!  ir 
characters,  excelling  in  opposite  qualities,  and  reflecting  lustre 
on  each  other  b}^  their  very  opposition.  In  nothing  is  this  cou- 
tj'ast  more  strikingly  evinced  than  in  their  military  conduct, 
tor  figes  have  they  been  contending,  and  for  ages  have  they 
crowded  each  other's  history  with  acts  of  splendid  heroism. 
Take  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  for  instance,  the  last  and  nio8t 
memorable  trial  of  their  rival  prowess.  Notliing  could  surpass 
the  brilliant  darinsj;  on  the  one  side,  and  the  steadfast  endiirin<j; 
on  the  other.  The  French  cavalry  broke  like  waves  on  the 
compact  squares  of  English  infantry.  They  were  seen  gallop- 
ing round  those  serried  walls  of  men,  seeking  in  vain  for  :in 
entrance  ;  tossing  their  arms  in  the  air,  in  the  heat  of  tlieir 
enthusiasm,  and  braving  the  whole  froni.  of  battle.  The 
British  troops,  on  the  other  hand,  forbidden  to  move  or  lire, 
stood  (irm  and  enduring.  Their  columns  were  rip'oed  up  by 
C'lnnonry ;  whole  rows  were  swept  down  at  a  shot ;  the  sur- 
vivors ciOfCd  their  ranks,  and  stood  firm.  In  this  way  luany 
Cfl'imns  -slood  through  the  pelting  of  the  iron  tempest  without 
filing  i'  .'hot ,  without  any  action  to  stir  their  blood,  or  (>xcile 
thc'r  spirKs.  Death  thinned  their  ranks,  but  eoukl  not  shake 
their  f-o-un. 

A  b>  •  tifui  ii'stance  of  the  quick  and  generous  inq)ulses  to 
which  e  Frerch  are  prone,  is  given  in  tiie  case  of  n  French 
cavalier  in  the  hottesi  of  the  action,  charging  furiously  upon  a 
British  o..icef,  but  perceivii.g  in  the  moi'i  'lit  of  aH>^iiiilt  that  his 
adversary  had  lost  his  sword-arm,  dropping  the  [xAui  of  \\\n 
8ii>re.  and  courte'^usly  riding  on.  Peace  be  with  that  generous 
warrior,  whatever  were  his  fate!  If  he  went  down  in  the 
storm  of  battle,  with  th  ;  foundering  fortunes  of  his  chieftiiin, 
may  ihe  turf  of  \Vaterloo  grow  green  above  liis  grave !  an<l 
happier  far  would  i)e  the  fate  of  such  a  spirit,  to  sink  amid  the 
tempest,  unconscious  of  defeat,  than  to  survive,  and  mouru 
ever  the  blighted  laurels  of  his  country. 


n 
i&  ■ 

mw 


SKETCHES  IN  PARIS  IN  1825. 


91 


jret  ho  is  Rpt 
ainily;  witii 


the  contrast 
ctor ;  but  it 
!    two   great 
:cl,  and  most 
ict   in    'I  -ir 
acting  lustro 
is  this  c'on- 
ry   contliK't. 
s  liavo  thoy 
lid  heroism, 
it  and  most 
)ul(l  surpass 
ist  eudurin<f 
ives   on  the 
seen  gallop- 
vain   for  ;in 
eat  of  their 
ittle.       The 
riove  or  lire, 
pped   up   liy 
ot ;  the  sur- 
1  way  many 
pest  without 
•d,  or  excite 
1  not  shake 

impulses  to 
of  a  Krencli 
insly  u[»on  a 
itult  that  his 
[x/int  of  \m 
lat  geneious 
<Mvn  in  the 
is  chieftain, 
grave  !  ari'l 
ik  amid  the 

and    mouru 


In  this  way  the  two  armies  fought  through  a  long  and  bloody 
day.  The  French  with  enthusiastic  valor,  the  English  with 
cool,  inflexible  courage,  until  Fate,  as  if  to  leave  the  question 
of  sui)eriority  still  undecided  between  two  such  adversaries, 
brought  up  the  Prussians  to  decide  the  fortunes  of  the  field. 

It  was  several  years  afterward  that  I  visited  the  field  of 
Waterloo.  The  i)l()ughshare  had  been  busy  with  its  ol)livious 
labors,  and  the  frequent  harvest  had  nearly  obliterated  the 
vestiges  of  war.  Still  the  blackened  ruins  of  Hoguemont  stood, 
a  monumental  pile,  to  mark  the  violence  of  this  vehement 
struggle.  Its  broken  walls,  pierced  by  bullets,  and  shattered 
by  ex'iilosions,  showed  the  deadly  strife  that  had  taken  place 
within ;  when  Gaul  and  Briton,  hemmed  in  between  narrow 
walls,  hand  to  hand  and  foot  to  foot,  fought  from  garden  to 
court-yard,  from  court-yard  to  chamber,  with  intense  and  con- 
centrated rivalship.  Columns  of  smoke  towered  from  this  vor- 
tex of  battle  as  from  a  volcano:  "it  was,"  said  my  guide, 
"  like  a  little  hell  upon  earth."  Not  far  off,  two  or  three  broad 
spots  of  rank,  unwholesome  green  still  marked  the  places  where 
these  rival  warriors,  after  their  fierce  and  fitful  struggle,  slept 
quietly  together  in  the  lap  of  their  common  mother  earth. 
Over  all  the  rest  of  the  field  peace  had  n  uiied  its  sway.  The 
tiiouglitless  whistle  of  the  peasant  floated  on  the  air,  instead  of 
the  trunqiet's  clangor ;  the  team  slowly  labored  up  the  hill-side, 
once  shaken  by  the  hoofs  of  rushing  squadrons ;  and  wide 
fields  of  corn  waved  i)eacefully  over  the  soldiers'  graves,  as 
summer  seas  dimple  over  the  place  where  many  a  tall  ship  lies 
buried. 

To  the  foregoing  desultory  notes  on  the  French  military 
character,  let  me  append  a  few  traits  which  I  picked  up  ver- 
bally in  one  of  the  French  provinces.  They  may  have  already 
appeared  in  print,  but  I  have  never  met  with  them. 

At  the  l)r"aking  out  of  the  "'.'volution,  when  so  many  of  the 
old  families  emigrated,  a  descendant  of  the  great  Turenne,  by 
the  name  of  I)c  Latour  D'Auvergne,  refused  to  accompany  his 
relations,  and  entered  into  the  Republican  army.  He  served  in 
all  tlie  campaigns  of  the  revolution,  distinguished  himself  by 
his  valor,  hin  accomplishments,  and  his  generous  spirit,  and 
niighf  have  risen  to  fortune  and  to  the  highest  honors.  He 
refused,  however,  all  rank  in  the  army,  above  that  of  captain, 
and  would  receive  no  recompense  for  his  achievements  but  a 
►^word  of  honor.  Napoleon,  in  testimony  of  his  merits,  gave 
iiim  the  title  of  Premier  Grenadier  de  France  (First  Grenadier 
of  Franco),  which  was  the  only  title  l-.o  would  ever  bear.     He 


hi'' 


92 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


»     '  '; 


was  killed  in  Germany,  in  1809  or  '10.  To  honor  his  memory, 
his  place  was  always  retained  in  -his  regiment,  as  if  lie  still 
occupied  it ;  and  whenever  the  regiment  was  mustered,  ainl  tlie 
name  of  De  Latour  D'Auvergne  was  called  out,  the  reply  waa, 
"  Dead  on  the  field  of  honor !  " 


ft, 


!'      ( 


^!!l     I 


PARIS  AT  TIJE  RESTORATION. 

Paris  presented  a  singular  asj)eot  just  after  the  downfall  of 
Napoleon,  and  the  restoration  of  the  HourI)()ns.  It  was  filled 
with  a  restless,  roaming  population  ;  a  dark,  sallow  race,  with 
fierce  muutaehes,  black  cravats,  and  feverish,  ineuaeing  looks; 
men  suddenly  thrown  out  of  employ  by  the  return  of  peace ; 
officers  cut  short  in  their  career,  and  east  loo^^e  with  seaiily 
means,  many  of  them  in  utter  indigence,  u|)on  the  world  ;  the 
broken  elements  of  armies.  They  liuuiifcd  the  jjlaces  of  ])ai> 
lie  resort,  like  restless,  unlun)py  spirits,  taldng  no  pleasure; 
hanging  about,  like  lowering  clouds  that  linger  after  a,  stonn, 
and  giving  a  singular  air  of  gloom  to  this  otherwise  gay  metrop- 
olis. 

The  vaunted  courtesy  of  the  old  school,  the  smooth  urbanity 
that  prevailed  in  former  days  of  settlecJ  government  and  long- 
established  aristocracy,  luid  disuppeared  amid  the  savage  re- 
publicanism of  the  revolution  jind  military  furor  <jf  the  empire; 
re'jent  reverses  had  stung  the  national  vanity  to  the  cpiick  ;  and 
English  travellers,  who  crowded  to  Paris  on  the  return  of  peace, 
expecting  to  meet  with  a  gay,  good-luunored,  complaisant  pop- 
ulace, such  as  existed  in  the  time  of  the  "  Sentimental  ,Iour- 
ney,"  were  surprised  at  finding  them  irrital)le  and  fractious, 
quick  at  fancying  affronts,  and  not  unapt  to  offer  insults.  They 
accordingly  inveighed  with  heat  and  bitterness  at  the  rudeness 
they  experienced  in  the  French  metropolis ;  yet  what  better 
had  they  to  expect?  Had  Charles  II.  been  reinstated  in  liis 
kingdom  by  the  valor  of  French  troops  ;  had  he  been  wheeled 
triumphantly  to  London  over  the  trampled  bodies  and  trampled 
standards  of  England's  bravest  sons ;  had  a  French  general 
dictated  to  the  English  capital,  and  a  French  army  l>eeu 
quartered  in  IIyde-I*ark ;  had  I'aris  poured  forth  its  motley 
[)opulation,  and  the  wealthy  bourgeoisie  of  every  French  trad- 
ing town  swarmed  to  London  ;  crowding  its  scpiares ;  filling  its 
streets  with  their  e(iui[)ages  ;  thronging  its  fashionable  hotels, 
and  places  of  amusements ;  elbowing  its  impoverished  nobility 
out  of  their  palaces  and  opera-boxes,  ai\d  looking  down  on  the 
iiLimiliated  inhabltauts  aa  a  conquered  people  ;  iu  such  a  reverse 


SKETCUES  IN  PARIS  IN  18S5. 


ys 


memory, 

if  lie  still 
'I,  and  the 
reply  was, 


own  fall  of 

was  (illcd 

nice,  witli 

iiijn  looks; 

of  iicacr ; 

itii   .soanly 

vorld  ;  the 

.'S  of  piih- 

pleasuie ; 

r  a  storin, 

ly  metrop- 

1  ufbanity 
and  loug- 
<avaife  re- 
le  empire ; 
iiiick  ;  and 
1  of  peaee, 
isunt  pop- 
intal  .loiir- 
fraelious, 
Its.  '11  ley 
J  rudeness 
liat  better 
ted  in  his 
!n  wheeled 
I  trani|)led 
■li  <i;eneral 
irniy  been 
its  motley 
cncli  tratl- 
;  (illinjj;  it,s 
l)lo  hotels, 
;d  n()i)ility 
vvn  on  the 
1  a  roversH 


of  the   case,  what  degree  of  courtesy  would  the  populace  ot 
London  have  been  apt  to  exercise  toward  their  visitors? ' 

On  the  contrary,  I  have  always  admired  the  degree  of  mag- 
nanimity exhibited  by  the  French  on  the  occupation  of  tiieir 
capital  by  the  English.  When  we  consider  the  military  ambi- 
tion of  this  nation,  its  love  of  glory;  the  splendid  height  to 
which  its  renown  in  arms  had  recently  been  carried,  and  with 
these,  the  tremendous  reviM'scs  it  had  just  undergone ;  its 
armies  shattered,  annihilated  ;  its  capital  captured,  garrisoned, 
and  overrun,  and  that  too  by  its  ancient  rival,  the  English, 
toward  whom  it  had  cherished  for  centuries  a  jealous  and 
almost  religious  hostility ;  could  we  have  wondered  if  the  tiger 
spirit  of  this  fiery  people  had  broken  out  in  bloody  feuds  and 
deadly  quarrels  ;  and  that  they  had  sought  to  rid  themselves 
in  any  way  of  their  invaders?  Hut  it  is  cowardly  nations  only, 
those  who  dare  not  wield  the  sword,  that  revenge  themselves 
with  the  lurking  dagger.  There  were  no  assassinations  in  Paris. 
The  French  had  fought  valiantly,  desi)erately,  in  the  field  ;  but, 
when  valor  was  no  longer  of  avail,  tliey  submitted  like  gallant 
men  to  a  fate  they  could  not  withstand.  Some  instances  of 
insult  from  the  populace  were  experienced  by  their  English 
visitors  ;  some  personal  rencontres,  which  led  to  duels,  did  take 
place ;  but  these  smacked  of  open  and  honorable  hostility. 
No  instances  of  lurking  and  perfidious  revenge  occurred,  and 
the  British  soldier  patrolled  the  streets  of  I'aris  safe  from 
treacherous  assault. 

If  'Jic  English  met  with  harshness  and  rei)ulse  in  social  inter- 
course, it  was  in  some  degree  a  proof  that  the  people  are  more 
sincere  than  has  been  repiesented.  Th(>  emigrants  who  had 
just  returned,  were  not  yet  reinstated.  Society  was  constituted 
of  those  who  had  flourished  under  the  late  regime  ;  the  newly  en- 
nobled, the  recently  enriched,  who  felt  their  prosperity  and  their 
consecpience  endangered  by  this  change  of  things.  The  broken- 
down  ollicer,  who  saw  his  glory  tarnished,  his  fortune  ruined, 
his  oceupation  gone,  could  not  be  expected  to  look  with  compla- 
cency upon  the  authors  of  his  downfall.  The  English  visitor, 
flushed  with  health,  and  wealth,  and  victory,  could  little  enter 
into  the  feelings  of  the  blighted  warrior,  scarred  with  a  hundred 
battles,  an  exile  from  tlu'  camp,  broken  in  constitution  by  the 
wars,  im|K)ver!shed  l)y  the  [jcace,  and  cast  back,  a  needy  strangei 
in  the  splendid  but  cai>tured  metropolis  of  his  country. 

'  The  iibovc  romai'Uf)  were  HURgCHtcii  by  a  convpiRatioii  with  the  late  Mr.  Caiiniiii;, 
whom  the  niitho"  .net  n  I'aris,  and  who  expressed  himHelf  in  the  most  liberal  way  con. 
ocruiiiK  tht)  magnaniiuity  of  the  French  ouifa*  qccupittiou  of  their  capital  by  strauKcri. 


( 


;  ; 


94 


TUE  CItAYON  PAPERS. 


\\  i 


"Oh!  who  can  tell  what  hcroei  feel, 
When  nil  but  life  and  honor'*  lont!  " 

And  here  let  me  notice  the  conduct  of  the  French  sohhery 
on  the  dismembermeut  of  the  army  of  the  Loire,  when  two 
hundred  thousand  men  were  suddenly  thrown  out  of  cinploy; 
men  who  had  been  brouj^ht  up  to  tlie  eauip,  and  scuice  knew 
any  other  home.  Few  in  civil,  peaceful  life,  arc  aware  of  tjii' 
severe  trial  to  the  feelinfTs  that  takes  place  on  the  dissolution  of 
a  regiment.  There  is  a  fraternity  in  arms.  The  community  of 
dangers,  hardships,  enjoyments  ;  the  participation  In  battles  and 
victories ;  the  companionship  in  adventures,  at  a  time  of  life 
when  men's  feelings  are  most  fresh,  susceptible,  and  ardent,  all 
these  bind  the  members  of  a  regiment  strongly  together.  To 
them  the  regiment  is  friends,  family,  home.  They  identify 
themselves  with  its  fortunes,  its  glories,  its  disgraces.  Imagitu! 
this  romantic  tie  suddenly  dissolved  ;  the  regiment  broken  up; 
the  occupation  of  its  members  gone  ;  their  military  pritle  niorti- 
lied  ;  the  career  of  glory  cilosed  behiivl  them  ;  that  of  obscurity, 
dependence,  want,  neglect,  perhaps  beggary,  before  them. 
Such  was  the  case  with  the  soldiers  of  the  Army  of  the  Loire. 
They  were  sent  off  in  squads,  with  olTiccrs,  to  the  principal  towns 
where  they  were  to  be  disarmed  and  discharged.  In  this  way 
they  passed  through  the  country  with  arms  in  their  hands,  often 
exposed  to  slights  and  scoffs,  to  hunger  and  various  hardships 
and  privations ;  but  they  conducted  themselves  magnanimously, 
without  any  of  those  outbreaks  of  violence  and  wrong  that  so 
often  attend  the  dismembermeut  of  armies. 


The  few  years  that  have  elapsed  since  the  time  above  alluded 
to,  have  already  had  their  effect.  The  proud  and  angry  spirits 
which  then  roamed  about  Paris  unemployed  have  cooled  down 
and  found  occupation.  The  national  character  begins  to  re- 
cover its  old  channels,  though  worn  deeper  by  recent  torrents. 
The  natural  urbanity  of  the  French  begins  to  find  its  way,  like 
oil,  to  the  surface,  though  there  still  remains  a  degree  of  rough- 
ness and  bbmtness  of  manner,  partly  rej:l,  and  partly  affected, 
by  such  as  imagine  it  to  indicate  force  and  friinkness.  The 
events  of  the  last  thirty  years  have  rendered  the  French  a  more 
reflecting  people.  They  have  acquired  greater  independence  of 
mind  and  strength  of  judgment,  together  with  a  portion  of  that 
prudence  which  results  from  exi)eriencing  the  dangerous  conse- 
quences  of   excesses.     However   that   period    may  have   been 


\ 


>  soldiery 
wlu'u  two 

('llil)loy; 
lice  knew 
lie  of  the 
loliitioii  of 
imiiiity  of 
•iiltk's  ami 
lie  of  life 
udent,  :ill 
llier.  To 
y  identify 

Iin!i<i;ine 
roken  up ; 
ide  niorti- 
obseurity, 
)re  them, 
the  Loire, 
ipal  towns 
\  this  wjiy 
nils,  often 
Inirdships 
ininunisly, 
Jg  tha*,  so 


vc  alluded 
i<];ry  sj)irits 
oled  down 
^ins  to  re- 
t  torrents. 
3  way,  like 
I  of  rou<fli- 
y  affected, 
less.  The 
K'h  a  more 
eudenee  of 
on  of  that 
ous  conse- 
buve   been 


SKETCHES  IN   PA  HIS   IN   18g5. 


96 


fttained  by  orinios,  and  filled  with  oxtnivagance.s,  the  Froneh 
have  certainly  come  out  of  it  n  greater  nation  than  before.  One 
of  their  own  philo.sophers  observes  that  in  one  or  two  <i;enerations 
the  nation  will  prol»ably  coml)ine  the  ease  and  ele<j;ance  of  tiie 
old  ciiaracter  with  force  and  solidity.  They  were  li)j;ht,  he  says, 
before  the  revolution  ;  then  wild  and  sava<j;e  ;  they  liave  become 
more  thon<j;htful  and  rellcctive.  It  is  only  old  Krenchmen, 
now  a-days,  that  are  gay  and  trivial ;  the  young  are  very  serious 
personages. 


I'.S.  In  the  course  of  a  morning's  walk,  about  the  time  tho 
above  remarks  were  written,  I  observed  the  Duke  of  Wellington, 
who  was  on  a  brief  visit  to  Paris.  He  was  alone,  sim[)ly  attired 
ill  a  l»lue  frock  ;  with  an  umbrella  under  his  arm,  and  his  hat 
drawn  over  his  eyes,  and  sauntering  across  the  I'lace  Vendoine, 
close  by  the  Coluniii  of  Napoleon.  He  gave  a  glance  up  at 
the  column  as  he  i)assed,  and  continued  his  loitering  way  up  the 
Rue  de  la  J'aix  ;  slopping  occasionally  to  gazi'  in  at  the  shop- 
windows  ;  ell)ovved  now  and  then  by  other  gazers,  who  little 
Kiisiiected  that  the  (piiet,  lounging  individual  they  were  jostling 
so  ui'ceremoniously,  was  the  concpieror  who  had  twice  entered 
the  capital  victoriously  ;  lia<l  controlled  the  destinies  of  the  na- 
tion, and  eclipsed  the  glory  of  the  military  idol,  at  the  base  of 
wliose  column  he  was  thus  negligently  sauntering. 

Some  years  afterward  I  was  at  an  evening's  entertainment 
liiveii  by  the  Duke  at  Apsley  House,  to  William  IV.  The  Duke 
had  maiiifesleii  his  admiration  of  his  great  adversary,  by  having 
jjortraits  of  him  in  ditYi'rent  parts  of  tiie  house.  At  the  bottom 
of  the  grand  staircase,  stood  the  colossal  statue  of  the  Emperor, 
by  Canova.  It  was  of  niari)le,  in  the  anticpie  style,  with  one 
arm  partJy  extended,  holding  a  ligure  of  victory.  Over  this 
arm  the  ladies,  in  tripping  up  stairs  to  the  ball,  had  thrown  their 
sliawls.  It  was  a  singular  ollice  for  the  statue  of  Napoleon  to 
perform  iu  the  mansion  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  ! 

"imperial  Capsar  duad,  and  turuud  to  clay,"  etc.,  ate. 


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23  WIST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  MS80 

(716)  872-4S03 


^ 

^<^ 


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C/j 


99 


THE  CRAYON   PAPERS. 


AMERICAN   RESEARCHES   IN   ITALY. 


» t    «; 


i.lFE   OF   TASSO  :    ItECOVERY   OF    A    LOST    PORTRAIT   OP   DANTE. 


li 


■iM 


To  the  Editor  of  the  Knickerbocker : 

Sir  :  Permit  me  tlirough  the  pages  of  yoiir  magazine  to  call 
the  attention  of  the  public  to  the  learned  and  elegant  researclios 
in  Europe  of  one  of  our  countrymen,  j\Ir.  R.  H.  Wilde,  or 
Georgia,  formerly  a  member  of  the  House  of  Representatives. 
After  leaving  Congress,  Mr.  Wilde  a  few  years  since  spout 
about  eighteen  months  in  travelling  through  different  parts  of 
Europe,  until  he  became  stationary  for  a  time  in  Tuscany.  Hero 
he  occupied  himself  with  researches  concerning  the  private  life 
of  Tasso,  whose  mysterious  and  romantic  love  for  the  Princess 
Leonora,  liis  madness  and  imprisonment,  had  recently  become 
the  theme  of  a  literary  controvers}',  not  yet  I'uded  ;  curious  in 
itself,  and  rendered  still  more  curious  by  some  alleged  manu- 
scripts of  the  poet's  l)rought  forward  by  Count  Alberti.  Mr. 
Wilde  entered  into  the  investigation  with  the  enthusiasiu  of  :i 
poet,  and  the  patience  ond  accuracy  of  a  case-hunter;  and  has 
produced  a  work  now  in  the  press,  in  which  the  ''vexed  ques- 
tions" concerning  Tasso  are  most  ably  discussed,  and  liglita 
thrown  upon  them  by  his  letters,  and  by  various  of  his  sonnets, 
which  last  are  rendered  into  English  with  rare  felicity.  While 
Mr.  Wilde  was  occupied  upon  this  work,  he  became  acquainted 
with  Signor  Carlo  Liverati,  an  artist  of  considerable  merit,  aiul 
especially  well  versed  in  the  antiquities  of  Florence.  This  gentle- 
man mentioned  incidentally  one  day,  in  the  course  of  conversa- 
tion, that  there  once  and  probably  still  existed  in  the  Bur(j(>Uo, 
anciently  both  the  prison  and  the  palace  of  the  republic,  an 
authentic  portrait  of  Dante.  It  was  believed  to  be  in  fresco,  on 
a  wall  which  afterward,  by  some  strange  neglect  or  inadvertency, 
had  been  covered  with  whitewash.  Signor  I.,iverati  mentioned 
the  circumstance  merely  to  deplore  the  loss  of  so  precious  a  por- 
trait, and  to  regret  the  almost  utter  hopelessness  of  its  recovery. 

As  Mr.  Wilde  had  not  as  yet  imbibed  that  enthusiastic  admi- 
ration for  Dante  which  possesses  all  Italians,  by  whom  the  poet 
is  almost  worshipped,  this  conversation  made  but  a  slight  im- 
pression on  him  at  the  time.  Subsequently,  however,  his  re- 
searches concerning  Tasso  being  endi'd,  he  began  to  amuse  his 
leisure   hours  with   attempts   to  translate   some   specimens  of 


AMERICA X  RESEARCHES  IN  ITALY. 


97 


Italian  lyric  poetry,  and  to  compose  very  short  biographical 
sketches  of  the  authors.  In  these  specimens,  which  as  yet  exist 
only  in  manuscript,  he  has  shown  the  same  criti<;al  knowledge  of 
the  Italian  language,  and  admirable  command  of  the  English, 
that  characterize  his  translations  of  Tasso.  He  had  not  ad- 
vanced far  in  these  exercises,  when  the  obscure  and  contradictory 
accounts  of  many  incidents  in  the  life  of  Dante  caused  him 
much  embarrassment,  and  sorely  piqued  his  curiosity.  Al)out 
the  same  time  he  received,  through  the  courtesy  of  Don  Neri  dei 
Principi  Corsini,  what  he  had  long  most  fervently  desired,  a 
permission  from  the  Grand  Duke  to  pursue  his  investigations 
ill  tlie  secret  archives  of  Florence,  witli  power  to  ol)tain  copies 
therefrom.  This  was  a  rich  and  almost  unwrought  mine  of 
literary  research  ;  for  to  Italians  tliemsclves,  as  well  as  to  for- 
eigners, their  archives  for  the  \uor.t  part  iiave  been  long  in- 
accessible. For  two  years  Mr.  Wilde  devoted  himself  with 
indefatigable  ardor  to  explore  the  records  of  the  re|)ublic  during 
the  time  of  Dante.  These  being  written  in  bMrl)arons  Latin 
and  semi-Gothic  characters,  on  parchment  more  or  less  discol- 
ored and  mutilated,  with  ink  sometimes  fadetl,  were  rendered 
still  more  illegible  by  the  arbitrary  abl)revi:itions  of  the  notaries. 
Tiiey  require,  in  fact,  an  especial  study ;  few  even  of  the 
officers  employed  in  the  '■^  Archin'o  della  liifonnagione'''  can 
read  them  currently  and  correctly. 

Mr.  Wilde  however  persevered  in  his  laborious  task  with  a 
patience  severely  tried,  but  invincil)le.  Being  without  an  in- 
dex, each  file,  each  book,  required  to  be  examined  page  by 
page,  to  ascertain  whether  any  particular  of  the  imh.ortal  poet's 
political  life  had  escaped  the  untiring  industry  of  his  country- 
men. This  toil  was  not  wholly  fruitless,  and  several  interest- 
ing facts  obscurely  known,  and  others  utterly  unknown  by  the 
Italians  themselves,  are  drawn  forth  by  Mr.  Wilde  from  the 
oblivion  of  these  archives. 

While  thus  engaged,  the  circumstance  of  the  lost  portrait 
of  Dante  was  again  brought  to  Mr.  Wilde's  mind  but  no^ 
excited  intense  interest.  In  perusing  the  notes  of  the  late 
learned  Canonico  Moreri  on  Filelfo's  life  of  Dante,  he  found 
it  stated  that  a  portrait  of  the  poet  by  Giotto  was  formerly  to 
be  seen  in  the  Bargello.  He  learned  also  that  Signor  S(!otti, 
who  has  charge  of  the  original  drawings  of  the  old  masters  in 
the  imperial  and  royal  gallery,  liad  made  several  years  pre- 
viously an  ineffectual  attempt  to  set  on  foot  a  project  for  the 
recovery  of  the  lost  treasure.  Here  was  a  new  vein  of  inquiry, 
which  Mr.  Wilde  followed  up  with  his  usual  energy  and  saga- 


i  I 


\  ; 


p  t 


t 


p 


'• 


1     *  I  !■ 


98 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


city.  He  soon  satisfied  himself,  by  reference  to  Vasari,  and  to 
the  still  more  ancient  and  decisive  authority  of  Filippo  Villari, 
who  lived  shortly  after  the  poet,  that  Giotto,  the  friend  and 
contemporary  of  Dante,  did  undoubtedly  paint  his  likeness  in 
the  place  indicated.  Giotto  died  in  1336,  but  as  Dante  was 
banished,  and  was  even  sentenced  to  be  burned,  in  1302,  it  was 
obvious  the  work  must  have  been  executed  before  that  time ; 
since  the  portrait  of  one  outlawed  and  capitally  convicted  as  an 
enemy  to  the  commonwealth  would  never  have  been  ordered  or 
tolerated  in  the  chapel  of  the  royal  palace.  It  was  clear,  then, 
that  the  portrait  must  have  been  painted  between  1200  and  1^02. 

Mr.  Wilde  now  revolved  in  his  own  mind  the  possibility  tluit 
this  precious  relic  might  remain  undestroyed  under  its  coat  of 
whitewash,  and  might  yet  be  restored  to  the  world.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  felt  an  impulse  to  undertake  the  enterprise  ;  but  feared 
that,  in  a  foreigner  from  a  new  world,  any  part  of  which  is 
unrepresented  at  the  Tuscan  court,  it  might  appear  like  an  in- 
trusion. He  soon  however  found  a  zealous  coadjutor.  This 
was  one  Giovanni  Aubrey  Bezzi,  a  Piedinontese  exile,  who  had 
long  been  a  resident  in  JIngland,  and  was  familiar  with  its  lan- 
guage and  literature.  He  was  now  on  a  visit  to  Florence,  which 
libei'al  and  hospitable  city  is  always  open  to  men  of  merit  who 
for  political  reasons  have  been  excluded  from  other  parts  of 
Italy.  Signer  Bezzi  partook  deeply  of  the  enthusiasm  of  his 
countrymen  for  the  memory  of  Dante,  and  sympathized  with 
Mr.  Wilde  in  his  eagerness  to  ret. 'eve  if  possible  the  lost  por- 
trait. They  had  several  consultations  as  to  the  moans  to  be 
adopted  to  effect  their  purpose,  without  incurring  the  charj^e  of 
undue  offlciousness.  To  lessen  any  objections  tliat  might  occur, 
they  resolved  to  ask  for  nothing  but  permission  to  search  for 
the  fresco  painting  at  their  own  expense ;  and  should  any  re- 
mains of  it  be  found,  then  to  propose  to  the  nobility  and  gentry 
of  Florence  an  association  for  the  purpose  of  completino;  the 
undertaking,  and  effectually  recovering  the  lost  portrait. 

For  the  same  reason  the  formal  memorial  addressed  to  the 
Grand  Duke  was  drawn  up  in  the  name  of  Florentines  ;  amon^ 
whom  were  the  celebrated  Bartollni,  now  President  of  tlie 
School  of  Sculpture  in  the  Imperial  and  Royal  Academy,  Sig- 
nor  Paolo  Ferroni,  of  the  noble  family  of  that  name,  wlio  has 
exhibited  considerable  talent  for  painting,  and  Signor  Gnspa- 
rini,  also  an  artist.  This  petition  was  urged  and  supjiortod 
with  indefatigable  zeal  by  Signor  Bezzi ;  and  being  warmly 
countenanced  by  Count  Nerli  and  other  functionaries,  mot 
with  more  prompt  success  than  had  been  anticipated.     Siguor 


tlio 
fron 
tile 
perioi 
oiitli 
I'e 

■'•ore 
.liter 
It 
C'oac 
the  s( 


. 


sari,  and  to 
ippo  Villari, 
friend  and 
likeness  in 
Dante  was 
1302,  it  was 
B  that  time ; 
victed  as  an 
n  ordered  or 
clear,  then, 
[)0  and  ia02. 
ssibility  tliat 
r  its  coat  of 
For  a  nio- 
;  but  feared 
of  which  is 
ar  like  an  in- 
jutor.     Tills 
:ile,  who  had 
with  its  lan- 
)rence,  wliicli 
)f  merit  who 
>ther  parts  of 
iisiasm  of  his 
:)athized  wilb 
!  tlie  lost  per- 
means  to  he 
the  charjic  of 
,  might  occur, 
to  search  for 
ihould  any  re- 
,ty  and  gentry 
ompleting  tlie 
jrtrait. 
Iressed  to  the 
itines  ;  among 
sident   of  tlic 
Vcademy,  Sig- 
lame,  wlio  lias 
jignor  Gaspa- 
ind  siipportod 
])eing  warmly 
tionaries,   met 
)ated.     Signor 


AMERICAN  RESEARCHES  IN  ITALY. 


99 


Marini,  a  skilful  artist,  who  had  succeeded  in  similar  opera- 
tions, was  now  employed  to  remove  tlie  whitewash  by  a  process 
of  his  own,  by  which  any  freseo  i)ainting  that  might  exist  be- 
neatli  would  be  protected  from  injury.  lie  set  to  work  patiently 
and  cautiously.  In  a  short  time  he  met  with  evidence  of  tlie 
existence  of  the  fresco.  From  under  the  coat  of  wiiitewash 
the  head  of  an  angel  gradually  made  its  appearance,  and  was 
pronounced  to  be  by  the  pencil  of  (iiotto. 

The  enteriirise  was  now  prosecuteil  with  increased  ardor. 
Several  months  were  expended  on  the  task,  and  three  sides  of 
the  eli:i()cd  wall  were  uncovered  ;  they  were  all  painted  in  fresco 
by  (i lotto,  with  the  history  of  the  Magdalen,  exhibiting  her  cou- 
versi(;n,  her  penance,  and  her  beatilication.  The  figures,  how- 
ever, were  all  those  of  saints  and  angels ;  no  historical  portraits 
had  yet  been  discovered,  and  doubts  began  to  be  entertained 
whether  there  were  any.  Still  the  recovery  of  an  indisputable 
work  of  (iiott(/s  was  considered  an  amiile  reward  for  any  toil ; 
•uid  the  Ministers  of  the  Grand  Duke,  acting  under  his  direc- 
tions, assumed  on  his  behalf  the  past  charges  and  future  man- 
ageiiU'iit  oi  the  enterprise. 

At  length,  on  the  uncovering  of  the  fourth  wall,  the  under- 
taking was  crowned  with  complete  success.  A  numlicr  of 
historical  figures  were  brought  to  light,  and  among  them  the 
und()ul)t('d  likeness  of  Dante.  He  was  represented  in  full 
length,  ill  the  garb  of  the  time,  with  a  book  under  his  arm, 
designed  must  probably  to  represent  the  '*  Vita  Nuova,"  for 
the  "  Coinedia  "  was  not  yet  composed,  and  to  all  appearance 
from  thirty  to  thirty-five  years  of  age.  The  face  was  in  pro- 
file, and  in  excellent  preservation,  excepiing  that  at  some  former 
period  a  nail  had  unfortunately  been  driven  into  the  eye.  The 
oiilliiie  of  the  eyelid  was  perfect,  so  uhat  the  injury  could  easily 
I'e  remedied.  The  countenance  was  extremely  handsome,  yet 
loie  a  strong  resemblance  to  the  portraits  of  the  poet  taken 
.titer  in  life. 

it  is  not  eas}'  to  appreciate  the  delight  of  Mr.  Wilde  and  his 
coadjutors  at  this  triumphant  result  of  their  researches  ;  nor 
the  sensation  produced,  not  merely  in  Florence  but  throughout 
Italy,  by  this  discovery  of  a  veritable  portrait  of  Dante,  in  the 
prime  of  his  days.  It  was  some  such  sensation  as  would  be  pro- 
duced in  England  by  the  sudden  discovery  of  a  perfectly  well 
authenticated  likeness  of  Shakspeare ;  with  a  difference  in  in- 
tensity proportioned  to  the  superior  sensitrveness  of  the  Italians. 

The  recovery  of  this  portrait  of  the  "•  divine  poet"  has  occa- 
sioned fresh  inquiry  into  the  origin  of  the  masks  said  to  havw 


■    I 


h..-i  1 


!  , 


100 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


•  ■-■ 


been  made  from  a  cast  of  his  face  taken  after  death.  One  of 
these  masks,  in  the  possession  of  the  Marquess  of  Torrigiani, 
has  been  pronounced  as  certainly  the  original.  Several  artists 
of  high  talent  have  concurred  in  this  opinion;  among  these 
may  be  named  Jesi,  the  first  engraver  in  Florence ;  Seymour 
Kirkup,  Esq. ,  a  painter  and  antiquary ;  and  our  own  country- 
man Powers,  whose  genius,  by  the  way,  is  very  highly  appre- 
ciated by  the  Italians. 

We  may  expect  from  the  accomplished  pen  of  Carlo  Torri- 
giani, sou  of  the  Marquess,  and  who  is  advantageously  known 
in  this  country,  from  having  travelled  here,  an  account  of  this 
curious  and  valuable  relic,  which  has  been  upward  of  a  century 
in  the  possession  of  his  family. 

Should  Mr.  Wilde  finish  his  biographical  work  concerning 
Dante,  which  promises  to  be  a  proud  achievement  in  American 
literature,  he  intends,  I  understand,  to  apply  for  permission  to 
have  both  likenesses  copied,  and  should  circumstances  warrant 
the  expense,  to  have  them  engraved  by  eminent  artists.  We 
shall  then  have  the  features  of  Dante  while  in  the  prime  of  life 
us  well  as  at  the  moment  of  his  death.  G.  C. 


if 


THE  TAKING  OF  THE  VEIL. 


J  i 


n^  i     ? 


I 


One  of  the  most  remarkable  personages  in  Parisian  society 
during  the  last  century  was  Ren6e  Charlotte  Victoire  de  Frou- 
lay  De  Tesst>,  Marchioness  De  Cr^qui.  She  sprang  from  the 
highest  and  proudest  of  the  old  French  nobility,  and  ever  main- 
tained the  most  exalted  notions  of  the  purity  and  antiquity  of 
blood,  looking  upon  all  families  that  could  not  date  back  further 
than  three  or  four  hundred  years  as  mere  upstarts.  When  u 
beautiful  girl,  fourteen  years  of  age,  she  was  presented  to  Louis 
XIV.,  at  Versailles,  and  the  ancient  monarch  kissed  her  haml 
with  great  gallantry;  after  an  interval  of  about  eighty-five 
years,  when  nearly  a  hundred  years  old,  the  same  testimonial 
of  respect  was  paid  her  at  the  Tuileries  by  Bonaparte,  then 
First  Consul,  who  promised  her  the  restitution  of  the  confiscated 
forests  formerly  belonging  to  her  family.  She  was  one  of  the 
most  celebrated  women  of  her  time  for  intellectual  grace  and 
superiority,  and  had  the  courage  to  remain  at  Paris  and  brave 
all  the  horrors  of  the  revolution,  which  laid  waste  the  aris- 
tocratical  world  around  her. 


i      -  5 


h.  One  of 
Torrigiani, 
eral  artists 
nong  these 
Seymour 
irn  countrj- 
hly  appre- 

arlo  Torri- 
usly  known 
ount  of  this 
a  century 

concerning 
n  American 
jrmission  to 
ces  warrant 
rtists.  We 
rime  of  life 
G.  C. 


isian  society 
>ire  de  Frou- 
ng  from  the 
[i  ever  main- 
antiquity  of 
back  further 
ts.  When  a 
ited  to  Louis 
led  her  hand 
it  eighty-five 
e  testimonial 
aparte,  then 
e  confiscated 
i  one  of  the 
lal  grace  and 
:i8  and  brave 
,8te  the  aris- 


TUE  TAKING  OF  TUE   VEIL. 


101 


The  memoirs  she  has  left  behind  abound  with  curious  anec- 
dotes and  vivid  pictures  of  Parisian  life  during  the  latter  days 
of  Louis  XIV.,  the  regency  of  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  and  the 
residue  of  the  last  century ;  and  are  highly  illustrative  of  the 
pride,  splendor,  and  licentiousness  of  the  French  nobility  on 
the  very  eve  of  their  tremendous  downfall. 

I  shall  draw  forth  a  few  scenes  from  her  memoirs,  taken 
almost  at  random,  and  which,  though  given  as  actual  and  well' 
known  circumstances,  have  quite  the  air  of  romance. 


All  the  great  world  of  Paris  were  invited  to  be  present  at  a 
grand  ceremonial,  to  take  place  in  the  church  of  the  Abbey 
Koyal  of  Panthemont.  Henrietta  de  Lenoncour,  a  young  girl, 
of  a  noble  family,  of  great  beauty,  and  heiress  to  immense 
estates,  was  to  take  the  black  veil.  Invitations  had  been  issued 
iu  grand  form,  by  her  aunt  and  guardian,  the  Countess  Brigitte 
de  Hupelmonde,  canoness  of  Mauberge.  The  circumstance 
caused  great  talk  and  wonder  in  the  fashionable  circles  of  Paris  ; 
everybody  was  at  a  loss  to  imagine  why  a  young  girl,  beautiful 
and  rich,  in  the  very  springtime  of  her  charms,  should  renounce 
a  world  which  she  was  so  eminently  qualified  to  embellish  and 
enjoy. 

A  lady  of  high  rank,  who  visited  the  beautiful  novice  at  the 
grate  of  her  convent-parlor,  got  a  clew  to  the  mystery.  She 
found  her  in  great  agitation  ;  for  a  time  she  evidently  repressed 
her  feelings,  but  they  at  length  broke  forth  in  passionate  ex- 
clamations. "Heaven  grant  me  grace,"  said  she,  "some  day 
or  other  to  pardon  my  cousin  Gondrecourt  the  sorrows  he  has 
caused  me !  " 

"  What  do  you  mean? — what  sorrows,  my  child?  "  inquired 
her  visitor.     "  W^hat  has  your  cousin  done  to  afifect  you?  " 

"  He  is  married  !  "  cried  she  in  accents  of  despair,  but  en* 
deavoring  to  repress  her  sobs. 

"  Married  !  I  have  heard  nothing  of  the  kind,  my  dear.  Are 
you  perfectly  sure  of  it?  " 

"  Alas  !  nothing  is  more  certain  ;  my  aunt  de  Rupelmonde  in- 
formed me  of  it." 

The  lady  retired,  full  of  surprise  and  commiseration.  She 
related  the  scene  in  a  circle  of  the  highest  nobility,  in  the  saloon 
of  the  Marshal  Prince  of  Beauvau,  where  the  unaccountable  self- 
sacrifice  of  the  beautiful  novice  was  under  discussion. 

"  Aluo  1  "  said  she,  "  the  poor  giii  is  crossed  in  love  ;  she  la 


■  u 


I  ■ 


I       I      'A 


^n 


102 


THE  CRAYON  PAPKRa. 


about  to  renounce  the  workl  in  despair,  at  the  marriage  of  her 
cousin  De  Gondrecourt." 

"What!"  cried  a  gentleman  present,  "the  Viscount  de 
Gondrecourt  married !  Never  was  there  a  greater  falsehood. 
And  '  her  aunt  told  her  so ! '  Oh  !  I  understand  the  plot.  The 
countess  is  passionately  fond  of  Gondrecourt,  and  jealous  of  her 
beautiful  niece ;  but  her  schemes  are  vain  ;  the  Viscount  holds 
her  in  perfect  detestation." 

There  was  a  mingled  expression  of  ridicule,  disgust,  and 
indignation  at  the  thought  of  such  a  rivalry.  The  Countess 
Kupelnionde  was  old  enough  to  be  the  grandmother  of  the  Vis- 
count.  She  was  a  woman  of  v'iolent  passions,  and  imperious 
temper ;  robust  in  person,  with  a  masculine  voice,  a  dusky  com- 
plexion, green  eyes,  and  powerful  eyebrows. 

"  It  is  impossible,"  cried  one  of  the  company,  "  that  a  woman 
of  the  countess'  age  and  appearance  can  be  guilty  of  such  folly. 
No,  no  ;  you  mistake  the  aim  of  this  detestable  woman.  She  ig 
managing  to  get  possession  of  the  estate  of  her  lovely  niece." 

This  was  admitted  to  be  the  most  probable  ;  and  all  concurred 
in  believing  the  countess  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  intended 
sacrifice ;  for  although  a  canoness,  a  dignitary  of  a  religious 
order,  she  was  pronounced  little  better  than  a  devil  incarnate. 

The  Princess  de  Ileauvau,  a  woman  of  generous  spirit  and 
intrepid  zeal,  suddenly  rose  from  the  chair  in  which  she  had 
been  reclining.  "  My  prince,"  said  she,  addressing  her  hus- 
band, "  if  you  approve  of  it,  I  will  go  immediately  and  have  a 
conversation  on  this  subject  with  the  archbishop.  There  is  not 
a  moment  to  spare.  It  is  now  past  midnight ;  the  ceremony  is 
to  take  place  in  the  morning.  A  few  hours  and  the  irrevocable 
vows  will  be  pronounced." 

The  prince  inclined  his  head  in  respectful  assent.  The 
princess  set  about  her  generous  enterprise  with  a  woman's 
promptness.  Within  a  short  time  her  carriage  was  at  the  iron 
gate  of  the  archiepiscopal  palace,  and  her  servants  rang  for 
admission.  Two  "^witzers,  who  had  charge  of  the  gate,  were 
fast  asleep  in  the  porter's  lodge,  for  it  was  half-past  two  in  the 
morning.  It  was  some  time  before  they  could  be  awakened, 
and  longer  before  they  could  be  made  to  come  forth. 

"  The  Princess  de  Beauvau  is  at  the  gate !  " 

Such  a  personage  was  not  to  be  received  in  deshabille.  Her 
dignity  and  the  dignity  of  the  archbishop  demanded  that  the 
gate  should  be  served  in  full  costume.  For  half  an  hour,  there- 
fore, iuul  the  princess  to  wait,  in  feverish  impatience,  until  tlie 
two  dignitaries  of  the  porter's  lodge  arrayed  themselves ;  and 


ge  of  her 

count  de 
"alsehooil. 
lot.  The 
Dus  of  her 
UDt  boUls 

gust,  and 

Couuti'ss 

'  the  Vis- 

iniporious 

usky  coin- 

a  woman 

ucli  folly. 

She  is 

ly  niece." 

eonciiiTpd 

3  intended 

religious 

earn  ate. 

spirit  and 

she  had 

;  her  hus- 

ntl  have  a 

iiere  is  not 

eremony  is 

irrevocable 

jnt.  The 
I  woman's 
it  the  iron 
}  rang  for 
gate,  were 
two  in  the 
awakened, 


jille.  Her 
d  that  the 
our,  there- 
S  until  tho 
elves  ;  uuU 


THE  TAKING  OF  THE   VEIL. 


103 


three  o'clock  sounded  from  the  tower  of  Notre  Dame  before 
they  came  forth.  They  were  in  grand  livery,  of  a  huff  color, 
with  amaranth  galloons,  plaited  with  silver,  and  fringed  sword- 
belts  reaching  to  their  knees,  in  which  were  suspended  long 
rapiers.  They  had  small  three-cornered  hats,  surmounted  with 
plumes  ;  and  each  bore  in  his  hand  a  halbert.  Thus  ecpiipped  at 
all  points,  they  planted  themselves  before  the  door  of  the  car- 
riage ;  struck  the  ends  of  their  halberts  on  the  ground  with  em- 
phasis ;  and  stood  waiting  with  oflieial  importance,  but  profound 
respect,  to  know  the  pleasure  of  the  princess. 

She  demanded  to  speak  with  tiie  archbishop.     A  most  rever 
ential  bow  and  shrug  accompanied  the  reply,  that  "His  Gran- 
deur was  not  at  home." 

Not  at  home!  Where  was  he  to  be  found?  Another  bow 
and  shrug  ;  "  His  Grandeur  either  was,  or  ought  to  be,  in  retire- 
ment in  the  seminary  of  St.  Magloire  ;  unless  he  had  gone  to 
pass  the  Fete  of  St.  Bruno  with  tlie  reverend  Carthusian  Fathers 
oi'the  Rue  d'Knfer ;  or  perhaps  he  might  have  gone  to  repose 
himself  in  his  castle  of  Conflans-sur-Seine.  Though,  on  further 
thought,  it  was  not  unlikely  he  might  have  gone  to  sleep  at  St. 
Cyr,  where  the  Bishop  of  Chartres  never  failed  to  invite  him  for 
the  anniversary  8oir(f>e  of  Madame  de  Maintenon. 

The  princess  was  in  des[)air  at  this  multiplicity  of  cross* 
roads  pointed  out  for  the  chase  ;  the  brief  interval  of  time  wa* 
rapidly  elapsing ;  day  already  began  to  dawn  ;  she  saw  there 
was  no  hope  of  finding  the  archbishop  before  the  moment  ot 
his  entrance  into  the  church  for  the  morning's  ceremony ;  so 
she  returned  home  quite  distressed. 

At  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  princess  was  in  the 
parlor  of  the  monastery  of  De  Pantheiuont,  and  sent  in  an 
urgent  request  for  a  moment's  conversation  with  the  Lady 
Abbess.  The  reply  brought  was,  that  the  Abbess  could  not 
come  to  the  parlor,  being  obliged  to  attend  iu  the  choir,  at  the 
canonical  hours.  The  princess  entreated  permission  to  cuter 
the  convent,  to  reveal  to  the  Lady  Abbess  in  two  words  some« 
thing  of  the  greatest  importance.  The  Abbess  sent  word  ia 
reply,  that  the  tiling  was  impossible,  until  she  had  obtained 
permission  from  the  Archbishop  of  Paris.  The  princess  retired 
once  more  to  her  carriage,  and  now,  as  a  forlorn  ho[)e,  took  her 
station  at  the  door  of  the  church,  to  watch  for  the  arrival  of  the 
prelate. 

After  a  while  the  splendid  company  invited  to  this  great 
ceremony  began  to  arrive.  The  beauty,  rank,  and  wealth  of 
the  novice  had  excited  great  attention  ;  and,  as  everybody  was 


Ih 

1 

¥ji' 

1  H»  1 

M 

m\.  \ 

• 

I    ;    ' 

li  B 

\p 

\  J 

\  " 

[, 

! 

<4  ii  i 
'if  I  i« 


1  ■'. 


'  ii-.; 


I 


■'t-J 


! 


I   1 


,    11 


(  I    I.: 


llM 


?     i 


104 


THE  CRAYOX   PAPKUSt. 


expected  to  be  present  on  the  oeraaion,  ovorybody  prcssrcl  to 
secure  a  place.  The  street  reverl)eiatecl  witli  tlie  continual  roll 
of  gilded  carriages  and  chariots  ;  coaches  of  princes  aud  dukes, 
designated  by  imperials  of  crimson  velvet,  and  niajiniliccnt 
equipages  of  six  horses,  decked  out  with  noddin;;  phmic:*  and 
sumptuous  harnessing.  At  length  the  e(iuii)ag"s  ceased  to 
arrive  ,  empty  vehicles  filled  the  street ;  and,  with  a  noisy  and 
parti-colored  crowd  of  lackeys  in  rich  liveries,  obstructed  all 
the  entrances  to  I)e  I'anthemont. 

Pleven  o'clock  had  struck  ;  the  last  auditor  had  entered  the 
church  ;  the  deep  tones  of  the  organ  began  to  swell  through  the 
sacred  pile,  yet  still  the  archbishop  came  not !  The  heart  of 
the  princess  beat  quicker  and  quicker  with  vague  apprehension  ; 
when  a  valet,  dressed  in  cloth  of  silver,  trinnned  with  crimson 
velvet,  approached  her  carriage  precipitately.  "  Madame," 
said  he,  "the  archbishop  is  in  the  church;  he  entered  by  the 
portal  of  the  cloister;  he  is  already  in  the  sanctuary  ;  the  cere- 
mony is  alHJut  to  commence  !  " 

What  was  to  be  done?  To  speak  with  the  archbishop  was 
now  impossible,  and  yet  on  the  revelation  she  was  to  make 
to  him  depended  the  fate  of  the  lovely  novice.  The  princess 
drew  forth  her  tablets  of  enamelled  gold,  wrote  a  few  lines 
therein  with  a  pencil,  and  ordered  her  lackey  to  make  way  for 
her  through  the  crowd,  and  conduct  her  with  all  speed  to  the 
sacristy. 

The  description  given  of  the  church  and  the  assemblage  on 
this  occasion  presents  an  idea  of  the  aristociatical  state  of  tiie 
times,  and  of  the  high  interest  awakened  by  the  affecting 
sacrifice  about  to  take  place.  The  church  was  hUi!g  with 
superb  tapestry,  above  which  extended  a  band  of  white  damask, 
fringed  with  gold,  and  covered  with  armorial  escutcheons.  A 
large  pennon,  emblazoned  with  the  arms  and  alliances  of  the 
high-born  damsel,  was  suspended,  according  to  custom,  in  place 
of  the  lamp  of  the  sanctuary.  'IMie  lustres,  girandoles,  and 
fcandelabras  of  the  king  had  been  furnished  in  profusion,  to  deco- 
rate the  sacred  edifice,  and  the  pavements  were  all  covered  with 
rich  carpets. 

The  sanctuary  presented  a  reverend  and  august  assemblage  of 
bishops,  canouL.,  and  monks  of  various  orders,  Benedictines, 
Bemadines,  Raccollets,  Capuchins,  and  others,  all  in  their 
approoriate  robes  and  dresses.  In  the  midst  presided  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Paris,  Christopher  de  Beaumont ;  surrounded  by  his 
four  arch  priests  and  his  vicars-general.  He  was  seated  with 
his  back  against  the  altar.     When  his  eyes  were  cast  down,  his 


TIJE   TAKING   OF  THE   VEIL. 


105 


m'ssrd  to 
tiiuial  roll 
U(l  (hikes, 
i.'i^iiilicciit 
unicM  and 
ceased  to 
noisy  and 
meted  all 

ntered  tlio 
ir())i;j;li  tlie 
e  iieart  of 
elieiision ; 
li  crimson 
\Iadanie," 
■e(l  l)y  the 
;  the  ccre- 

ishop  was 
s  to  make 
ic  princess 

few  lines 
ke  way  for 
eed  to  the 

miblap;e  on 
tate  of  the 
3  affecting 
hih!^  with 
te  damask, 
'heons.  A 
ices  of  the 
m,  in  place 
doles,  and 
m,  to  deco- 
>vored  with 

cmblage  of 
nedictines, 
11  in  their 
1  the  Arch- 
ded  by  his 
leated  with 
t  down,  his 


ronnteoance,  pnle  nnd  severe,  is  represented  as  having  ])een 
somewhat  sepulchral  and  death-like  ;  but  the  moment  he  raised 
iiis  large,  dark,  sparkling  eyes,  the  whole  became  animated; 
beaming  with  ardor,  and  expressive  of  energy,  penetration,  and 
firmness. 

The  audience  that  crowded  the  church  was  no  less  illustrious. 
Excepting  the  royal  family,  all  that  was  elevated  in  rank  and 
title  was  there ;  never  had  a  ceremonial  of  the  kind  attracted 
an  equal  concourse  of  the  high  aristocracy  of  Paris. 

At  length  the  gi.ited  gates  of  the  choir  creaked  on  their 
hinges,  and  Madame  de  Richelieu,  the  high  and  noble  Abbess 
of  Dc  Panthemont,  advanced  to  resign  the  novice  into  the  hands 
of  her  aunt,  the  Countess  C'anoness  de  Rupelmonde.  Every 
eye  was  turned  with  intense  curiosity  to  gain  a  sight  of  the  beau- 
tiful victim.  She  was  sumptuously  dressed,  but  her  paleness 
and  languor  accorded  but  little  with  her  biilliant  attire.  The 
Canoness  De  Rupelmonde  conducted  her  niece  to  her  praying- 
desk,  where,  as  soon  as  the  poor  girl  knelt  down,  she  sank 
as  if  exhausted.  Just  then  a  sort  of  nunnuir  was  hoard  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  church,  where  the  servants  in  livery  were 
gathered.  A  young  man  was  borne  forth,  struggling  in  con- 
vulsions. He  was  in  the  uniform  of  an  oHicer  of  the  guards 
of  King  Stanislaus,  Duke  of  Lorraine.  A  whisper  circulated 
that  it  was  the  young  Viscount  de  (Jondrecourt,  and  that  he  was 
a  lover  of  the  novice.  Almost  all  the  young  nobles  present 
hurried  forth  to  proffer  him  sympathy  and  assistance. 

The  Archbishop  of  Paris  remained  all  this  time  seated  before 
the  altar;  his  eyes  cast  down,  his  pallid  countenance  giving  no 
signs  of  interest  or  participation  in  the  scene  around  him.  It 
was  noticed  that  in  one  of  his  hands,  which  was  covered  with 
a  violet  glove,  he  grasped  firmly  a  pair  of  tablets,  of  enamelled 
gold. 

The  Canoness  De  Rupelmonde  conducted  her  niece  to  the 
prelate,  to  make  her  profession  of  self-devotion,  and  to  utter 
the  irrevocable  vow.  As  the  lovely  novice  knelt  at  his  feet,  the 
archbishop  fixed  on  her  his  dark,  beaming  eyes,  with  a  kind  but 
earnest  expression.  "  Sister  I  "  said  he,  in  the  softest  and  most 
benevolent  tone  of  voice,  "  what  is  your  age?  " 

"  Nineteen  years,  Monseigneur,"  eagerly  interposed  the  Coun- 
tess de  Rupelmonde. 

"  You  will  reply  to  me  by  and  by,  Madame,"  said  the  arch- 
bishop, dryly.  He  then  repe:ited  his  cpiestiou  to  the  novice' 
who  replied  in  a  faltering  voice,  "  Seventeen  years." 

*'  In  what  diocese  did  you  take  the  wuite  veil'-' " 


'  .  i 


i'l 


106 


TIIF  (fRAYny    PAPERS. 


\  I    f 


» 


*'  In  the  (lioooao  of  'I'oiil." 

"  How  !  "  cxclMimcd  tli<'  ni-cliltisliop.  vclicmpntly.  '-In  tlip 
(Uocese  of  Toiil?  Tlu'  cliiiir  of  Tonl  is  vncMiit  !  Tlif  HislK.]. 
of  Toul  (Ued  fiftocii  iiiniitlis  since;  and  those  who  offleijite  in 
th(>  ehapter  ai'e  not  :iiitin)i  i/id  to  icctive  iK)vi<'es.  '^'oiir  novi- 
tiate, Mademoiselle,  is  null  and  void,  and  we  eannot  leeeivi- 
your  profession." 

The  urehI>isliop  rose  from  his  chair,  resumed  his  mitre,  anil 
took  the  cro/,ier  from  tiie  hands  of  an  atti-ndant. 

"  My  dear  hrethrcn,"  said  he.  ad<lrcssinu;  the  assemhiy,  '•  there 
is  no  necessity  for  our  examininjj;  and  interro<>;atin!i;  Madciiioi- 
aelle  de  LenoneoiU"  on  the  sinciTity  of  her  reliijious  vocation. 
There  is  a  canonical  impediment  to  her  professing  for  tlic^  pres- 
ent;  and,  as  to  the  future,  we  reserve  to  ourselves  the  eon- 
Hideration  of  the  matter;  interdictini;  to  all  other  ("^'clcsiaslicMl 
persons  the  power  of  acccptinij;  her  vows,  under  ))ciially  of  in- 
terdietion,  of  suspension,  and  of  imllilication  ;  all  which  is  in 
virtue  of  our  metropolitiU)  ri;j;hts,  contained  in  the  terms  of  tlio 
bull  c'»<»i  ^>/v>a://«/.s' ;  "  *■'  Aifjiitorimii  7i(),strinn  in.  noiitini'  J)nm- 
ini!  "  jjursueil  he,  chanting  in  a  grave  and  solemn  voice,  anil 
turning  toward  the  altar  to  give  the  benediction  of  the  holy  sac- 
vament. 

The  noble  auditory  had  that  habitude  of  reserve,  that  empire, 
or  rather  tyranny,  over  all  outward  manifestations  of  internal 
emotions,  which  Itelongs  to  high  aristocratical  breeding.  The 
declaration  of  the  archi»ishoi),  therefore,  was  received  as  one 
of  the  most  natural  and  ordinary  things  in  the  world,  and  all 
knelt  down  and  received  the  pontifical  benediction  wilii  perfect 
decorum.  As  soon,  however,  as  they  were  released  from  tlic 
self-restraint  Imposed  by  eticpiette,  they  amply  indemnilicd 
themselves;  and  nothing  was  talked  of  foi-  a  month,  in  the 
fashionable  saloons  of  I'aris,  but  the  loves  of  the  liandsonK' 
Viscount  and  the  chaiining  Henrietta;  the  wickedness  of  the 
canoness  ;  the  active  benevolence  and  admirable  address  of  the 
]'rincess  de  Heauvau  ;  :ind  the  great  wisdom  of  the  archbisliop, 
who  was  particularly  extolled  for  his  delicacy  in  defc:iliiig  this 
mana'uvre  without  any  scandal  to  the  aristocracy,  or  public 
stigma  on  the  name  of  De  Hupelmonde,  and  without  any  de- 
parture from  pastoral  gentli'ness,  l)y  adroitly  seizing  upon  an 
informant}',  and  turning  it  to  iKueficial  account,  with  as  nuuli 
authority  as  charitable  circumspection. 

As  to  the  Canoness  de  Hupclnionde,  she  was  defeated  at  all 
points  in  her  wicked  plans  against  her  beautiful  niece.  In  coii- 
sequeuee  of  the  caveat  of  the  archbishop,  her  superior  ecclesiua- 


.    . 


THE   TAKIXn   or  THE   VEIL. 


107 


'•  In  tlip 

lie  Hislmii 
olUciiitc  in 
Viiiir  iiovi- 
lot   receive 

mitre,  uml 

l»Iy.  '•tlierc 
NiMileinoi- 

><  vociitioii. 

r  tlio  |>res- 
tlie  con- 
"(•IcsiMslieal 
nalty  of  in- 
wliieli  is  ill 
eniis  of  the 

III i III'  Dnni- 
I  voice,  and 
lie  holy  sac- 

lat  oinpiro, 

of  internal 
•dint;'.  'I'lic 
ivc<l  as  olio 
)rl(l,  and  all 
vvilii  perfect 
I'd  from  the 

iiidemnilie(| 
)ntli,  in  the 
e  liaiidsonu' 
liless  of  the 
iress  of  the 

areliliishop, 
,'featinu  this 
y,  oi'  piililic 
lout  any  de- 
inij;  upon  an 
itli  us  much 

feated  at  all 
ce.  In  con- 
ior  ecelesius- 


tic,  Iho  Alihoss  de  I'iuitliemont,  fonnnlly  forl)ade  Miidemoisclie 
lie  LciioiH'our  to  ivHinne  tlie  white  veil  and  tlic  drcsM  of  a  novi- 
tiate, and  instead  <»f  a  n(>viee's  ch-II,  CHtahlished  her  in  a  hcau- 
lifiil  apaitment  as  a  Itoardi-r.  Tlic  next  mornin<i;  the  t'unoncss 
de  Hupelmomh'  called  at  the  convent  to  take  away  her  niece  ;  hut, 
to  her  confusion,  the  ahltcss  prochiccd  a  lettre-de-caehet,  which 
she  had  just  "eeeivcfl,  and  which  forl)ade  Mademoiselle  to  leave 
the  convent  with  any  otiu'r  person  save  the  I'rince  de  IJenuvau. 

Inder  the  auspices  and  the  vij^ilant  attention  of  the  prince, 
the  whole  ati'air  was  wound  up  in  the  most  technical  and  cir- 
I'Uiiislantial  manner.  'I'hc  t'ountess  de  Hupelmonde,  by  a 
decree  of  the  Cirand  Council,  was  divested  of  the  <»;uardianship 
of  her  niece.  All  the  airears  of  reveiuies  accumulated  durins^ 
Mademoiselle  de  Lenoncoin's  minority  were  rij^orously  col- 
lected, the  accounts  sciiitinized  and  adjusted,  and  her  noble 
fortune  place]  safely  and  entirely  in  her  hands. 

In  a  little  while  the  noldc  i)ersonau;es  who  had  been  invited 
to  th"  ceremony  of  takinu;  the  veil  received  another  invitation, 
on  the  part  of  the  Countess  <lowa<jer  de  (Jondrecourt,  an«l  the 
Marslial  I'rince  de  Heauvau,  to  attend  the  jnarria<re  of  Adrien 
de  (londri'court,  N'iscount  of  .lean-sur-Moselle,  and  Henrietta  de 
heiioiicour,  Coiuitess  de  Ilevouwal,  etc.,  which  duly  took  place 
in  the  chai)el  of  the  arehiepiscopal  ludaee  at  Paris. 


So  much  for  the  l)eautifnl  Henrietta  (h'  Lenoncour.  We  will 
now  draw  forth  •  companion  picture  of  a  handsome  young 
cavalier,  who  liuured  in  the  gay  world  of  Taris  about  the  same 
time,  and  concerning  whom  the  ancient  Marchioness  writes 
with  the  lingering  feeling  of  youthful  ronmuce. 

THE  CHARMING  LETORIERES. 

"  A  coon  face  is  a  letter  of  recommendation,"  says  an  old 
proverb  ;  and  it  was  never  more  verified  than  in  the  case  of 
the  Chevalier  Letorieres.  He  was  a  young  gentleman  of  good 
family,  ])ut  who,  according  to  the  Si)anish  phrase,  had  nothing 
hut  his  cloak  and  sword  (capa  y  espada),  that  is  to  say,  his 
gentle  blood  and  gallant  bearing,  to  help  him  forward  in  the 
world.  Through  the  interest  of  an  uncle,  who  was  an  abb6,  he 
received  a  gratuitous  education  at  a  fashi'onaljle  college,  hut 
finding  the  terms  of  study  too  long,  !.,  .1  the  vacations  too 
short,  for  his  gay  and  indolent  temper,  he  left  college  without 


I , 


108 


rilE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


I  I    « 


I  r     .    ! 


■;    I 


ill  ^ 


saying  a  word,  aiul  launcbecl  himself  upon  Paris,  with  a  ligh» 
heart,  and  still  lighter  pocket.  Here  he  led  a  life  to  his  humor. 
It  is  true  he  had  to  make  scanty  meals,  and  to  lodge  in  a  garret ; 
but  what  of  that?  He  was  his  own  master;  free  from  all  task 
or  restraint.  When  cold  or  hungry,  he  sallied  forth,  like  otliers 
of  the  chameleon  order,  and  'jauqueted  on  pure  air  and  warm 
sunshine  in  tne  public  walks  and  gardens  ;  drove  off  the  thoughts 
of  a  dinner  by  annising  himself  with  the  gay  and  grotesque 
throngs  of  the  metropolis  ;  and  if  one  of  the  poorest  was  one 
of  the  merriest  gentlemen  upon  town.  Wherever  he  went, 
his  good  looks  and  frank,  graceful  demeanor,  had  an  instant 
and  magical  effect  in  securing  favor.  There  was  but  one  word 
to  express  his  fascinating  powers  —  he  vfas  "  charming." 

Instances  are  given  of  tl.i-  ofFect  of  his  winning  qualities  upon 
minds  of  coarse,  ordinary  ni^uld.  He  had  once  taken  shelter 
from  a  heavy  slunver  under  :'«  gateway.  A  hackney  coachman, 
who  was  passing  by,  pulled  up,  and  asked  him  if  he  wished  a 
cast  in  his  carriage.  Letoridrer;  declined,  with  a  mclanchcly 
and  dubious  shake  of  the  head.  The  coachman  regarded  him 
wistful'y,  repeated  his  solicitations,  and  wished  to  know  what 
place  he  was  going  to.  "  To  the  Palace  of  Justice,  to  walk  in 
the  galleries  ;  but  I  will  wait  here  until  the  rain  is  over." 

"  And  wliy  so?  "  incjuired  the  coachman,  pertinaciously. 

"  Because  I've  no  money  ;  do  let  me  be  quiet." 

The  coaclunun  jumped  down,  and  opening  the  door  of  his 
carriage,  "It  slmll  never  be  said,"  cried  he,  "that  I  left  so 
charming  a  young  gentleman  to  weary  himself,  and  catch  cold, 
merely  for  the  sal<  ■  of  twenty- four  sous." 

Arrived  at  the  Palace  of  Justice,  lie  stopi)ed  Ixjfore  the  saloon 
of  a  famous  restaurateur,  opened  the  door  of  the  v-arriage, 
and  taking  oft'  his  hat  very  resi)ectfully,  begged  the  youth  to 
accept  of  a  Louis-d'or.  "  You  will  meet  with  some  young  gen- 
tlemen within,"  said  he,  ''  with  whom  you  may  wish  to  take  a 
hand  at  cards.  The  number  of  my  coach  is  144.  You  can  tiud 
me  out,  and  repay  me  whenever  you  i)lease." 

The  worthy  .Jehu  was  some  years  afterward  made  coachman 
to  the  Pi'incess  Sophia,  of  France,  through  the  recommendation 
of  the  handsome  youtii  he  had  so  generously  oblij^ed. 

Another  instance  in  point  is  giveu  with  respect  to  his  tailor,  to 
whom  he  owed  foiu-  hundred  livres.  The  tailor  had  repeatedly 
dunned  him,  but  was  always  put  off  with  the  l)est  grace  in  the 
world.  The  wife  of  the  tailor  urged  her  husband  to  assume  :i 
harsher  tone.  He  replied  that  he  could  not  find  it  in  his  heurl 
to  si)eak  roughly  to  so  charming  a  young  gentleman. 


tlii( 
suit 
ap 
beet 
the 
au( 
cou 
thai 
he 
the 
wer 
I 
he 
will 
In 


THE  TAKING   OF  THE   VEIL. 


109 


th  a  light 
is  liumor. 

a  garret ; 

1  all  task 
ike  others 
and  warm 
e  thoiiglits 
grotescjue 
t  was  oiiL' 

he  went, 
an  instant 

one  woril 

lities  upon 
ien  shelter 
coachman, 
le  wished  a 
fnc'anchely 
jard'.d  him 
know  what 
to  walk  in 
er." 
ously. 

:loor  of  his 
it  I  left  so 
catch  cold, 

e  the  saloon 
e  v-arriage, 
le  youth  to 
young  gen- 
1  to  take  a 
!'ou  can  find 

3  coachman 
ninendation 

liis  tailor,  to 
1  repeatedly 
Trace  iu  the 
to  aasumc  u 
iu  his  heart 


returned  home,  however,  she  wore  quite  a 


"  I've  no  patience  with  such  want  of  spirit !  "  cried  the  wife ; 
"  you  have  not  the  courage  to  show  your  teeth  :  but  I'm  going 
out  to  get  cliange  for  this  note  of  a  hun'ired  crowns ;  before 
1  come  home,  I'll  seek  this  '  charming '  youth  myself,  and  see 
whether  he  has  the  power  to  charm  me.  I'll  warrant  he  won't 
be  able  to  put  me  off  >vith  line  looks  and  fine  speeches." 

With  these  and  many  more  vaunts,  tiie  good  dame  sallied 
forth.     When  she 
different  aspect. 

"Well,"  said  her  husband,  "how  much  have  you  received 
from  the  '  charming  '  young  man?  " 

"  Let  me  alone,"  replied  the  wife  ;  "  I  found  him  playing  on 
the  guitar,  and  he  looked  so  handsome,  and  was  so  amiable  and 
genteel,  that  I  had  not  the  heart  to  trouble  him." 

"And  the  change  for  the  hundred-crown  note?"  said  the 
tailor. 

The  wife  hesitated  a  moment:  "Faith,"  cried  she,  "you'll 
have  to  add  the  amount  to  your  next  bill  against  him.  The 
poor  young  gentleman  had  such  a  melancholy  air,  tiiat  —  I  know 
not  how  it  was,  but  —  I  left  the  hundred  crowns  on  his  mantel- 
piece iu  spite  of  him  !  " 

The  captivating  looks  and  manners  of  Letori^res  made  his 
way  with  equal  facility  in  the  great  world.  His  high  connec- 
tions entitled  him  to  presentation  at  court,  but  some  questions 
arose  about  the  sufficiency  of  his  proofs  of  nobility  ;  whereupon 
the  king,  who  had  seen  him  walking  in  the  gardens  of  Versailles, 
and  been  chai:';cd  with  his  appearance,  put  an  end  to  all  de- 
muis  of  etiquette  by  making  him  a  viscount. 

The  same  kind  of  fascination  is  said  to  have  attended  him 
throughout  his  career.  He  succeeded  in  various  difficult  family 
suits  on  questions  of  honois  and  privileges ;  he  had  merely  to 
api)ear  in  court  to  dispose  the  judges  in  ins  favor.  He  at  length 
became  so  popular,  that  on  one  occasion,  when  he  appeared  at 
tin'  theatre  on  recovering  from  a  wound  received  in  a  duel,  the 
audience  applauded  liini  on  his  entrance.  Nothing,  it  is  said, 
could  have  been  in  more  perfect  good  taste  and  high  breeding 
than  his  conduct  on  this  occasion.  When  he  heard  the  applause, 
he  rose  in  hi.s  l)ox,  stepped  forward,  and  surveyed  both  sides  of 
the  house,  as  if  he  could  not  believe  that  it  was  himself  they 
were  treating  like  a  favorite  actor,  or  a  prince  of  the  blood. 

His  success  with  the  fair  sex  may  easily  be  presumed ;  but 
he  had  too  much  honor  and  sensibility  to  render  his  intercourse 
wilri  them  a  series  of  cold  gallantries  and  heartless  triumphs. 
In  the  course  of  his  attendance  upon  court,  where  he  held  a  post 


% 


I  n 


.  :  i 


110 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


tr  '   ' 


of  honor  ahout  the  king,  he  fell  deeply  in  love  with  the  beautiful 
Princess  Julia,  of  Savoy  Carignan.  She  was  young,  tender,  and 
simple-hearted,  and  returned  his  love  with  equal  fervor.  Ilcr 
family  took  the  alarm  at  this  attachment,  and  procured  an  order 
that  she  should  inhabit  the  Abbey  of  Montmartre,  where  she 
was  treated  with  all  befitting  delicacy  and  distinction,  but  not 
permitted  to  go  beyond  the  convent  walls.  The  lovers  found 
means  to  correspond.  One  of  their  letters  was  intercepted,  and 
it  is  even  hintod  that  a  plan  of  eloi)emeut  was  discovered.  A 
duel  was  the  consequence,  with  one  of  the  fiery  relations  of  the 
princess.  Letorieres  received  two  sword-thrusts  in  his  ii;>;lif 
side.  His  wounds  were  serious,  yet  after  two  or  three  days' 
confinement  he  could  not  resist  his  impatience  to  see  tlie  princess. 
He  succeeded  in  scaling  the  walls  of  the  abbey,  and  obtainin«i; 
an  interview  in  an  arcade  leading  to  the  cloister  of  the  cemetery. 
The  interview  of  the  lovers  was  long  and  tender.  They  ex- 
changed vows  of  eternal  fidelity,  and  flattered  themselves  with 
hopes  of  future  happiness,  which  they  were  never  to  realize. 
After  repeated  farewells,  the  princess  re-entered  the  convi'iit, 
never  again  to  behold  the  charming  Letorii^res.  On  the  follow- 
ing morning  bis  corpse  was  found  stiff  and  cold  on  the  pave- 
ment of  the  cloister ! 

It  would  seem  that  the  wounus  of  the  unfortunate  youth  had 
been  reopened  by  his  efforts  to  get  over  the  wall ;  that  he  had 
refrained  from  calling  assistance,  lest  lie  should  expose  llu; 
princess,  and  that  he  had  bled  to  death,  without  any  one  to  aid 
him,  or  to  close  his  dying  eyt;^. 


THE  EAIII.Y  EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RING  WOOD 


I  n 


i  1 


',' .  I 


hi    ;:? 


NOTfcU    DOWN    FROM    HIS     CONVERSATIONS     BY    GEOFFREI 

CRAYON,    GENT. 

"  I  AM  a  Kentuckian  by  reeiidence  and  choice,  but  a  Virginian 
by  birtii.  The  cause  of  my  first  le.iving  tiie  '  Ancient  Domin- 
ion,' and  emigrating  to  Kentucky,  was  a  jackass!  You  stare, 
but  have  a  little  patience,  anil  I'll  soon  show  you  how  it  came 


•  Ralph  RiiiKwood,  though  a  fictilioui'  m.iuo,  ii«  a  real  personage:  the  worthy  original 
is  now  livin«  iiiiil  tloiirinhini{  in  honorul.n'  station.  I  have  given  some  anecilotos  of  hi^ 
early  and  eccentric  career  in,  as  nearly  as  I  can  recollect,  the  very  words  in  which  lie 
related  them.  They  certainly  a/forded  strong  temptations  to  the  einbellishinentu  of 
fiction;  but  I  thought  them  ho  strikingly  characteristic:  of  the  individual,  and  of  the 
■ceucR  and  society  into  which  his  peculiar  huiuorb  carried  him,  thai  I  prefurred  giviug 
them  In  their  urlt{inal  iiimplicitv.  —  Q-  C 


beautiful 

ndor,  :ui(l 

'cr.     Uvr 

an  Older 

tvliere  she 

1,  but  not 

ers  foil  ml 

pted,  and 

ered.     A 

)ns  of  the 

Ins  righf 

iree  days' 

prineess. 

obtaining 

eenieterv. 

'PI 

I  hey  ex- 

ielvt's  with 
to  realize, 
i  convent, 
;he  foUow- 
the  pave- 

yonth  had 
hat  he  had 
ixpose  the 

one  to  aid 


GWOOD 

FFREI 


Viro;inian 
nt  Doniin- 
Vou  Ktare, 
)vv  it  eanie 


orthy  original 
ecilotos  of  hii 
i  in  wliioh  111' 
MlishiiitMitH  of 
ftl,  and  uf  t!ie 
etarted  glviug 


EARLY  EXPEIilENCES  OF  RALPH  RING  WOOD.     Ill 

to  pass.  My  father,  wlio  was  of  one  of  tlie  old  Virginian  fami- 
lies, residad  iu  Hichmond.  He  was  a  widower,  and  his  domestie 
affairs  were  managed  by  a  housekeeper  of  the  old  school,  such 
as  used  to  administer  the  concerns  of  opulent  Virginian  house- 
holds. She  was  a  dignitary  that  almost  rivalled  my  father  in 
importance,  and  seemed  to  think  every  thing  belonged  to  her ; 
in  fact,  she  was  so  considerate  in  her  economy,  and  so  careful 
of  expense,  as  sometimes  to  vex  my  father,  who  would  swear 
she  was  disgracing  him  by  her  meanness.  She  always  appeared 
with  that  ancient  insigiiia  of  housekeeping  trust  and  authority, 
a  great  bunch  of  keys  jingling  at  her  girdle.  She  superintended 
the  arrangements  of  the  table  at  every  meal,  and  saw  that  the 
dishes  were  all  placed  according  to  her  primitive  notions  of 
symmetry.  In  the  evening  she  took  her  stand  and  served  out 
tea  with  a  mingled  respectfulness  and  pride  of  station,  truly 
exemplary.  Iler  great  am))ition  was  to  have  every  thing  in 
order,  and  that  the  establishment  under  her  sway  shoiild  be  cited 
as  a  model  of  good  housekeeping.  If  any  thing  went  wrong, 
poor  old  Barbara  would  take  it  to  heart,  and  sit  in  her  room 
and  cry ;  until  a  few  chapters  iu  the  Bible  would  quiet  her 
spirits,  and  make  all  cabn  again.  The  Bible,  in  fact,  was  her 
constant  resort  in  time  of  trouble.  She  opened  it  indiscrimi- 
nately, and  whcthei'  she  chanced  among  the  lamentations  of  Jere- 
miah, the  Canticles  of  Solomon,  or  the  rough  emmieration  of 
the  tril)es  in  Deuteronomy,  a  chapter  was  a  chapter,  and  oper- 
ated like  balm  to  her  soul.  Such  was  our  good  old  housekeeper 
Barbara,  who  was  destined,  unwittingly,  to  have  a  most  impor- 
tant effect  upon  my  destiny. 

"  It  came  to  pass,  during  the  days  of  my  juvenility,  while  I 
was  yet  what  is  termed  'an  unlucky  boy,'  that  a  gentleman  of 
our  neighborhood,  a  great  advocate  for  ex[)eriment3  and  im- 
provements of  all  kinds,  took  it  into  his  head  that  it  would  be 
an  immense  public  advantage  to  introduce  a  breed  of  mules,  and 
accoi-dingly  imported  three  jacks  to  stock  the  neighborhood. 
This  in  a  i)art  of  the  country  where  the  people  cared  for  nothing 
hut  blood  horses  !  Why.  sir !  they  would  have  considered  their 
mares  disgraced  and  their  whole  stud  dishonored  by  such  a  mis- 
alliance. The  whole  matter  was  a  town  talk  and  a  town  scandal. 
The  worthy  amalgamator  of  cpiadrupeds  found  himself  in  a 
dismal  scrape  ;  so  he  backed  out  in  tiiue,  abjured  the  whole 
dojtrine  of  amalgamation,  and  turned  his  jacks  loos'"  to  shift 
for  themselves  upon  the  town  common.  There  they  used  to 
ruu  about  and  lead  an  idle,  good-for-nothing,  holiday  life,  the 
happiest  'iiumais  in  the  country. 


11 


112 


THE  CRAYON   PAPERS. 


"It  80  happened  that  my  way  to  school  lay  across  this  com- 
mon.  The  first  time  that  I  saw  one  of  these  animals  it  set  up  a 
braying  and  frightened  me  confoundedly.  However,  I  soon  got 
over  my  fright,  and  seeing  that  it  had  something  of  a  horse  look, 
my  Virginian  love  for  any  thing  of  the  equestrian  species  pre- 
dominated, and  I  determined  to  back  it.  I  accordingly  applied 
at  a  grocer's  shop,  procured  a  cord  that  had  been  round  a  loaf 
of  sugar,  and  made  a  kind  of  halter ;  then  summoning  some  of 
my  school-fellows,  we  drove  master  Jack  about  tlie  common 
until  we  hemmed  him  in  an  angle  of  a  'worm  fence.'  After 
some  difficulty,  we  fixed  the  halter  round  his  muzzle,  and  I 
mounted.  Up  flew  his  heels,  away  I  went  over  his  head,  and 
off  he  scampered.  However,  I  was  on  my  legs  in  a  twinkling, 
gave  chase,  caught  him,  and  remounted.  By  dint  of  repeated 
tumbles  I  soon  iearaed  to  stick  to  his  back,  so  that  he  could  no 
more  cast  me  than  he  could  his  own  skin.  From  that  time, 
roaster  Jack  and  his  companions  had  a  scampering  life  of  it,  for 
we  all  rode  them  between  school  hours,  and  on  holiday  after- 
noons ;  and  you  may  be  sure  school-boys'  nags  are  never  per- 
mitted  to  suffer  the  grass  to  grow  under  their  feet.  They  soon 
became  so  knowing  that  they  took  to  their  heels  at  the  very 
sight  of  a  school-boy ;  and  we  were  generally  much  longer  in 
chasing  than  we  were  in  riding  them. 

"  Sunday  approached,  on  which  I  projected  an  equestrian 
excursion  on  one  of  these  long-eared  steeds-  As  I  knew  the 
jacks  would  be  in  great  demand  on  Sundaj'  morning,  I  secured 
one  over  night,  and  conducted  him  home,  to  be  ready  for  an 
early  outset.  But  where  was  I  i,o  quarter  him  for  the  night? 
I  could  not  put  him  in  the  stable ;  our  old  black  groom  George 
was  as  absolute  in  that  domain  as  Barbara  was  within  doora, 
Bud  would  have  thought  his  stable,  his  horses,  and  himself  dis 
graced,  by  the  introduction  of  a  jackass.  I  recollected  thu 
smoke-house ;  an  out-building  appended  to  all  Virginian  estab- 
lishments for  the  smoking  of  hams,  and  other  kinds  of  meat. 
So  I  got  the  key,  put  master  Jack  in,  locked  the  door,  returned 
the  key  to  its  place,  and  went  to  bed,  intending  to  release  ray 
prisoner  at  an  early  hour,  l)efore  any  of  the  family  were  awake. 
I  was  so  tired,  however,  by  the  exertions  I  had  made  in  catch- 
ing the  donkey,  that  I  fell  into  a  sound  sleep,  and  the  morning 
broke  without  my  awaking. 

"  Not  so  with  dame  Barbara,  the  housekeeper.  As  usual,  to 
use  her  own  phrase,  '  she  was  up  before  the  crow  put  his  shoes 
on,'  and  bustled  about  to  get  things  in  order  for  breakfast. 
Her  first  resort  was  to  the  smoke-house.    Scarce  had  she  opeui'd 


EARLY  EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINOWOOD.     113 


the  door,  when  master  Jack,  tired  of  his  confinement,  and  glad 
to  be  released  from  darkness,  gave  a  loud  bray,  and  rushed 
forth.  Down  dropped  old  Barbara ;  the  animal  trampled  ovei 
her,  and  made  off  for  the  common.  Poor  Barbara !  She  had 
never  before  seen  a  donkey,  and  having  read  in  the  Bible  that  the 
devil  went  about  like  a  roaring  lion,  seeking  whom  he  might 
devour,  she  took  it  for  granted  that  this  was  Beelzebub  himself. 
The  kitchen  was  soon  in  a  hubbub ;  the  servants  hurried  to  the 
spot.  There  lay  old  Barbara  in  fits  ;  as  fast  as  she  got  out  of 
one,  the  thoughts  of  the  devil  came  over  her,  and  she  fell  into 
another,  for  the  good  soul  was  devoutly  superstitious. 

"As  ill  luck  would  have  it,  among  those  attracted  by  the 
noise  was  a  little,  cursed,  fidgety,  crabbed  uncle  of  mine ;  one 
of  those  uneasy  spirits  that  cannot  rest  quietly  in  their  beds  in 
the  morning,  hut  must  be  up  early,  to  bo'iher  the  household. 
He  was  only  a  kind  of  half-uncle,  after  all,  for  he  had  married 
my  father's  sister ;  yet  he  assumed  great  authority  on  the 
strength  of  his  left-handed  relationship,  and  was  a  universal 
iutermeddler  and  family  pest.  This  prying  little  busy-body 
soon  ferreted  out  the  truth  of  the  story,  and  discovered,  by 
hook  and  by  crook,  that  I  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  affair,  and 
had  locked  up  the  donkey  in  the  smoke-house.  He  stopped  to 
inquire  no  further,  for  he  was  one  of  those  testy  curmudgeons 
with  whom  unlucky  boys  are  always  in  the  wrong.  Leaving 
tld  Barbara  to  wrestle  in  imagination  with  the  devil,  he  made 
for  my  bed-chamber,  where  1  still  lay  wrapped  in  rosy  slum- 
bers, little  dreaming  of  the  mischief  I  had  done,  and  the  storm 
about  to  break  over  me. 

"In  an  instant  I  was  awakened  by  a  shower  of  thwacks,  and 
started  up  iu  wild  amazement.  I  demanded  the  meaning  of 
this  attack,  but  received  no  other  reply  than  that  I  had  mur- 
dered the  housekeeper ;  while  my  uncle  continued  whacking 
away  during  my  confusion.  I  seized  a  poker,  and  put  myself 
on  the  defensive.  I  was  a  stout  boy  for  my  years,  while  my 
uncle  was  a  little  wiffet  of  a  man  ;  one  that  in  Kentucky 
we  would  not  call  even  an  '  individual ; '  nothing  more  than 
a  '  remote  circumstance.'  I  soon,  therefore,  brought  him  to  a 
parley,  and  learned  the  whole  extent  of  the  charge  brought 
against  me.  I  confessed  to  the  donkey  and  the  smoke-house, 
but  pleaded  not  guilty  of  the  murder  of  the  housekeeper.  I 
Booi»  found  out  that  old  Barbara  was  still  alive.  She  continued 
under  the  doctor's  hands,  however,  for  several  days  ;  and  when- 
ever she  had   an   ill   turn   my  uncle   would   seek   to   give   me 


unolher 


flojiiiing. 


I  appealed  to  my  father,  but  got  no  redress. 


'    It 


114 


THE  CRAYON   PAPERS. 


'n 


I  was  considered  an  '  uulucky  boy,'  prone  to  nil  kincis  of  mis. 
chief ;  so  that  prepossessions  were  against  me  in  all  cases  of 
appeal. 

''  I  felt  stnng  to  the  soul  at  all  this.  I  had  been  beaten, 
degraded,  and  treated  with  slighting  when  I  complained.  I 
lost  my  usual  good  spirits  and  good  humor ;  and  being  out  of 
temper  with  everybody,  fancied  everylxxly  out  of  temper  with 
me.  A  certain  wild,  roving  spirit  of  freedom,  which  J  liilicvo 
is  as  inherent  in  me  as  it  is  in  the  partridge,  was  brought  into 
sudden  activity  by  the  checks  and  restraints  I  suffered.  '  I'll 
go  from  home,'  thought  I,  'and  shift  for  myself.'  rerliaps 
this  notion  was  quickened  by  the  rage  for  emigrating  to  Ken- 
tucky,  which  was  at  that  time  prevalent  in  Virginia.  1  had 
heard  such  stories  of  the  romantic  beauties  of  the  country  ;  (jf 
the  abundance  of  game  of  all  kinds,  and  of  the  glorious  inde- 
pendent life  of  the  hunters  who  ranged  its  noble  forests,  and 
lived  by  the  rifle ;  that  I  was  as  much  agog  to  get  there  as  Iioys 
who  live  in  seaports  are  to  launch  themselves  among  the  won- 
ders and  adventures  of  the  ocean. 

"After  a  time  old  Barbara  got  better  in  mind  and  body,  and 
matters  were  explained  to  her;  and  she  became  gradually  con- 
vinced that  it  was  not  the  devil  she  had  encountered.  When  she- 
heard  how  harshly  I  had  been  treated  on  her  account,  the  good 
old  soul  was  extremel}' grieved,  and  spoke  warmly  to  my  father 
in  my  behalf.  He  had  himself  remarked  the  change  in  my 
behavior,  and  thought  punishment  might  have  been  carried  too 
far.  He  sought,  therefore,  to  have  some  conversation  witli 
me,  and  to  soothe  my  feelings  ;  but  it  was  too  late.  I  fra;ikly 
told  him  the  course  of  mortification  that  i  had  experieuceil, 
and  the  fixed  determination  I  had  made  to  go  from  home. 

"• '  And  where  do  you  mean  to  go?  ' 

" 'To  Kentucky.' 

"  'To  Kentucky  !     Why,  you  know  nobody  there.* 

"  '  No  matter:    I  can  soon  make  acquaintances.' 

"  '  And  what  will  you  tlo  when  you  get  there? ' 

"'Hunt!' 

"  My  father  gave  a  long,  low  whistle,  and  looked  in  my  faro 
with  a  serio-comic  expression.  I  was  not  far  in  my  teens,  and 
to  talk  of  setting  off  alone  for  Kentucky,  to  turn  huutei-, 
seemed  doubtless  the  idle  prattle  of  a  boy.  He  was  little  nwaro 
of  the  dogged  resolution  of  my  character;  and  his  smile  of  in- 
credulity but  fixed  me  more  obstinately  in  my  purpose.  I  assured 
him  I  was  serious  in  what  I  said,  and  "'ould  ^ortainl*^  set  off  for 
Kentucky  in  the  spring 


EARLY  EXPERIENCES   OF  RALPH   RING  WOOD.      115 


Is  of  iiii^. 
1  east's  of 

;n    l)0!ll(Ml, 

ainod.  I 
»g  out  of 
'i2p^''"  with 

J  hclicve 
ought  into 
et}.     ^rii 

I'erliaps 
iT  to  Kfii- 
I  had 
iintry;  of 
ions  iiide- 
)iosts,  and 
re  as  hoys 
<;  tlie  won- 

''otly,  and 

iially  cou- 

Wheii  she 

)  tlio  ^ood 

my  father 

ge   in  my 

■arricd.  too 

ation  with 

I  frankly 

perienct'd, 

me. 


I  my  faro 
ecus,  and 
1  hunter, 
:tlc  aware 
ile  of  in- 
I  assured 
let  oif  fur 


"Montli  after  month  passed  away.  My  father  now  and  then 
advert«'d  sliglitly  to  what  had  passed  lietween  us ;  doubtless  for 
the  purpose  of  sounding  me.  I  always  expressed  the  same  grave 
and  fixed  determination.  By  degrees  he  spoke  to  me  more 
directly  oil  the  subject,  endeavoring  earnestly  but  kindly  ^-  clls- 
-iiade  me.      My  only  reply  was,  '  I  had  made  up  my  mind.' 

••  Aecordiiij^ly.  as  soon  as  the  spring  had  fairly  opened,  I 
soni;ht  him  one  day  in  his  study,  and  informed  him  I  was  about 
to  set  out  for  Kentucky,  and  had  come  to  take  my  leave.  He 
made  no  objection,  for  he  had  exhausted  persuasion  and  remon- 
strance, and  iloubtless  thought  it  best  to  give  way  to  my  humor, 
trustinji;  that  a  little  rough  experience  would  soon  bring  me 
home  again.  I  asked  money  for  my  journey.  He  went  to  a 
clu'st.  took  out  a  long  <);reen  silk  purse,  well  filled,  and  laid  it  on 
the  table.     1  now  asked  for  a  horse  and  servant. 

'•'A  horse  I '  s  I'd  my  father,  sneeringly  :  'why,  you  would 
not  go  a  mile  witluut  racing  him,  and  breaking  your  neck  ;  and 
as  to  a  servant,  you  cannot  take  care  of  yourself,  much  less  of 
him.' 

'•  '  How  am  I  to  travel,  then?' 

'•  •  Why.  I  suppose  you  are  man  enough  to  travel  on  foot.' 

"  He  si>oke  jestingly,  little  thinking  1  would  take  him  at  his 
word  ;  but  I  was  thoioiighly  piqued  in  respect  to  my  enterprise; 
so  I  pocketed  the  purse,  went  to  my  room,  tied  up  three  or  four 
shirts  in  a  pocket-handkerchief,  put  a  dirk  in  my  bosom,  girt  a 
couple  of  pistols  round  my  waist,  and  felt  like  a  knight-errant 
armed  eap-ii-pie,  and  reatly  to  rove  the  world  in  quest  of  adven- 
tures. 

'•  i\Iy  sister  (I  had  but  one)  hung  round  me  and  wept,  and 
entreated  me  to  stay.  I  felt  my  heart  swell  in  my  throat ;  but 
I  gulped  it  back  to  its  place,  and  straightened  myself  up :  I 
would  not  suffer  myself  to  cry.  1  at  length  disengaged  myself 
from  her.  and  i^ot  to  the  door. 

'•  •  When  will  you  come  back?'  cried  she. 

'•  •  Mcver.  by  heavens  I  '  cried  I,  '  until  I  come  back  a  member 
of('on<frcss  from  Kentucky.  1  am  determined  to  show  that  I 
au)  not  tiie  tail-end  of  the  family.' 

"Such  was  my  first  outset  from  home.  You  may  suppose 
what  a  ureenhorn  I  was,  and  how  little  1  knew  of  the  world  1 
was  launching  into. 

"  I  do  not  recollect  any  incident  of  importance,  until  I  reached 
the  lH)rders  of  Pennsylvania.  I  had  stopped  at  an  inn  to  get 
some  refreshment;  and  as  I  was  eating  in  the  back  room,  I 
overheard  two  men  in  the  bar-room  conjecture  who  and  what  J 


i   i 


.,^  .f  ^-.^i-,.^m  .Jh...^  »^~.-ml^:  •*••-*>•■  rffc,"* 


116 


TnE   CRAYON   PAPERS. 


r  i 


if! 


?       ;. 


!      i 


,'  I 


could  bo.  One  detprmincd,  at  length,  that  T  was  a  runaway  ap. 
prentice,  and  ought  to  be  stopped,  to  which  the  other  assented. 
When  I  had  finished  my  meal,  and  paid  for  it,  I  went  out  at  llio 
back  door,  lest  I  should  be  stopped  by  my  supervisors.  Scoin- 
ing,  however,  to  steal  off  like  a  culprit,  I  walked  round  to  the 
front  of  the  house.  One  of  the  men  advanced  to  the  front  door. 
He  wore  his  hat  on  one  side,  and  had  a  conse(piential  air  that 
nettled  me. 

"  '  Where  arc  you  going,  j^oungster?  '  demanded  he. 

"  *  That's  none  of  your  business  ! '  replied  I,  rather  pertly, 

"  '  Yes,  but  it  is,  though  !  You  have  run  away  from  home, 
and  must  give  an  account  of  yourself.' 

"  He  advanced  to  seize  me,  when  I  drew  forth  a  pistol.  '  If 
you  advance  another  step,  I'll  shoot  you  ! ' 

"  He  sprang  back  as  if  he  had  trodden  uiwn  a  rattlesnake, 
and  his  hat  fell  oflf  in  the  movement. 

"  '  Let  him  alone ! '  cried  his  companion  :  '  he's  a  foolish, 
mad-headed  boy,  and  don't  know  what  he's  about.  He'll  shoot 
you,  you  may  rely  on  it.' 

''  He  did  not  need  any  caution  in  the  matter ;  he  was  afraid 
even  to  pick  up  his  hat :  so  I  pushed  forward  on  my  way,  with- 
out molestation.  This  incident,  however,  had  its  effect  upon 
me.  I  became  fearful  of  sleeping  in  any  house  at  night,  lest  I 
should  be  stopped.  I  took  my  meals  in  the  houses,  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  but  would  turn  aside  at  night  into  some  wood 
or  ravine,  make  a  fire,  and  sleep  before  it.  This  I  considered 
was  true  hunter's  style,  and  I  wished  to  inure  myself  to  it. 

"  At  length  I  arrived  at  Brownsville,  leg- weary  and  way- 
worn, and  in  a  shabby  plight,  as  you  may  suppose,  having  been 
'  camping  out '  for  some  nights  past.  I  applied  at  some  of  the 
inferior  inns,  but  could  gain  no  admission.  I  was  regarded  for 
a  moment  with  a  dubious  eye,  and  then  informed  they  did  not 
receive  foot-passengers.  At  last  I  went  boldly  to  the  principal 
inn.  The  landlord  appeared  as  unwilling  as  the  rest  to  receive 
a  vagrant  boy  beneath  his  roof;  but  his  wife  interfered  in  the 
midst  of  his  excuses,  and  half  elbowing  him  aside  : 

"  '  Where  are  you  going,  my  lad? '  said  she. 

"'To  Kentucky.' 

*' '  What  are  you  going  there  for?* 

"  'To  hunt.' 

"  She  looked  ear-e'stly  at  me  for  a  moment  or  two.  '  Have 
you  a  mother  liv'.jg? '  said  she  at  length. 

'•  '  No,  madam  .  she  has  been  dead  for  some  time.' 

"  '  I  thought  so  ! '  cried  she,  warmly.     '  I  knew  if  you  had  a 


naway  np. 
assented, 
out  at  tho 
*•  Scoin- 
Hid  to  the 
lont  door. 
il  ail'  that 


portly, 
oin  home, 

stol.     '  If 
ittlcsnake, 

a  foolish, 
le'Il  slioot 

vas  afraid 
way,  witli- 
ffec't  upon 
glit,  lest  I 
.'s,  in  the 
iome  wood 
L'onsidered 
to  it. 

and  way- 
iving  been 
me  of  the 
;arded  for 
?y  did  not 
principal 
to  receive 
ed  in  the 


'  Have 


you  bad  a 


EARLY  EXPERIENCES   OF  RALPH  RINOWOOD.      117 

mother  living,  you  would  not  be  here.'     From  that  moment  the 
good  woman  tr*^ated  me  with  a  mother's  kindness. 

"  I  remaineci  several  days  beneath  her  roof,  recovering  from 
the  fatigue  of  my  journey.  While  here  I  purchased  a  rifle  and 
practised  daily  at  a  mark  to  prepare  myself  for  a  hunter's  life. 
When  sufficiently  recruited  in  strength  I  took  leave  of  my  kind 
host  and  hostess  and  resumed  my  journey. 

"At  Wheeling  I  embarked  in  a  flat-bottomed  family  boat, 
technically  called  a  broad-horn,  a  prime  river  conveyance  in 
those  days.  In  this  ark  for  two  weeks  I  floated  down  the  Ohio. 
The  river  was  as  yet  in  all  its  wild  beauty.  Its  loftiest  trees 
had  not  been  thinned  out.  The  forest  overhung  the  water's 
edge,  and  was  occasion <T,lly  skirted  by  immense  cane-brakes. 
Wild  animals  of  all  kinds  abounded.  We  hoard  them  rushing 
through  the  thickets  and  plashing  in  the  water.  Deer  and 
bears  would  frequently  swim  across  the  river ;  others  would 
come  down  to  the  bank  and  gaze  at  the  boat  as  it  passed.  I 
was  incessantly  on  the  alert  with  my  rifle  ;  but  somehow  or  other 
the  game  was  never  within  shot.  Sometimes  I  got  a  chance  to 
land  and  try  my  skill  on  shore.  I  shot  squirrels  and  small  birds 
and  even  wild  turkeys ;  but  though  I  caught  glimpses  of  deer 
bounding  away  through  the  woods,  I  never  could  get  a  fair  shot 
at  them. 

"  In  this  way  we  glided  in  our  broad-horn  past  Cincinnati,  the 
'Queen  of  the  West,'  as  she  is  now  called,  then  a  mere  group 
of  log  cabins ;  and  the  site  of  the  bustling  city  of  Louisville, 
then  designated  by  a  solitary  house.  As  T  said  before,  the 
Ohio  was  as  yet  a  wild  river ;  all  was  forest,  forest,  forest ! 
Near  the  confluence  of  Green  Rivor  with  the  Ohio,  I  landed, 
bade  adieu  to  the  broad-horn,  and  struck  for  the  interior  of 
Kentucky.  I  had  no  precise  plan  ;  my  only  idea  was  to  make 
for  one  of  the  wildest  parts  of  the  country.  I  had  relatives  in 
Lexington  and  other  settled  places,  to  whom  I  thought  it  prob- 
able my  father  would  write  concerning  me :  so  as  I  »vas  full  of 
manhood  and  independence,  and  resolutely  bent  on  making  my 
way  in  the  world  without  assistance  or  control,  I  resolved  to 
keep  clear  of  them  all. 

"  In  the  course  of  my  first  day's  trudge,  I  shot  a  wild  turkey, 
and  slung  it  on  my  back  for  provisions.  The  forest  was  open 
and  clear  from  underwood.  I  saw  doer  in  abundance,  but 
always  running,  running.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  these  animals 
never  stood  still. 

"At  length  I  came  to  where  a  gang  of  half-starved  wolves 
were  feasting  on  the  carcass  of  ^  deer  which  they  had  ran 


I 


41 


<• 


111 


118 


rilE   CRAYON   PAPERS. 


\i, 


down  ;  and  snarlinj^  and  snappiii};  and  fijflitiiij;];  like  so  many 
dogs.  They  were  all  so  ravenous  and  intent  U|)on  thi-ir  prey 
tliat  they  diil  not  notiee  me,  and  I  had  time  to  make  my  oltser- 
vations.  One,  iarjj;er  and  fiercer  than  tiie  rest,  seemed  to  eluiin 
the  lar<jer  sliare,  and  to  kee[)  tiie  otiiers  in  awe.  If  any  one 
came  too  near  him  wliile  catin<;,  he  would  My  off,  seize  and 
sliake  him,  and  tiien  return  to  liis  repast.  'This,'  thouj^ht  I, 
'  must  be  the  eajitain  ;  if  I  can  kill  him,  I  shall  (h'feat  the  wliolo 
army.'  I  accordingly  took  aim,  lired,  and  down  dropped  the  old 
fellow.  He  miijht  be  only  shamming  dead  ;  so  I  loaded  and 
pyt  a  second  l)all  throu<2;h  him.  lie  never  budged  ;  all  the  rest 
ran  off,  and  my  victory  was  complete. 

"  It  wo;;ld  not  be  easy  to  describe  my  triumphant  feeliiig3 
on  this  great  achievement.  I  marched  on  with  renovated  spirit, 
regarding  myself  as  al)soIiite  lord  of  the  forest.  As  night  drew 
near,  I  prepared  for  camping.  My  first  care  was  to  collect  dry 
wood  and  make  a  roaring  fire  to  cook  and  sleep  by,  and  to 
frighten  off  wolves,  and  bears,  and  panthers.  I  then  began  to 
pluck  my  turkey  for  supper.  I  had  camped  out  several  times 
in  the  early  part  of  my  expedition  :  but  that  was  in  compara- 
tively more  settled  antl  civilized  regions,  where  there  were  no 
wild  animals  of  consequence  in  the  forest.  This  was  my  first 
camping  out  in  the  real  wilderness  ;  and  I  was  soon  made  sen- 
sible of  the  loneliness  and  wildness  of  my  situation. 

"In  a  little  while  a  concert  of  wolves  commenced:  there 
might  have  been  a  dozen  or  two,  but  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  there 
were  thousands.  I  never  heard  such  howling  and  whining. 
Having  prepared  my  turkey,  I  divided  it  into  two  parts,  thrust 
two  sticks  into  one  of  the  halves,  and  planted  them  on  end 
before  the  fire,  the  hunter's  mode  of  roasting.  The  smell  of 
roast  meat  quickened  tlu^  appetites  of  the  wolves,  and  their 
concert  became  truly  infernal.  They  seemed  to  be  all  around 
me,  but  I  couhl  only  now  and  then  get  a  glimpse  of  one  of 
them,  as  he  came  within  the  glai-e  of  the  light. 

'•  I  did  not  much  care  for  the  wolves,  who  I  knew  to  be  a 
cowardly  race,  but  I  had  heard  terril)le  stories  of  panthers,  and 
began  to  fear  their  stealthy  prowlings  in  the  surrounding  dark- 
ness. I  was  thirsty,  and  heard  a  brook  l)nbbling  and  tinkling 
along  at  no  great  distance,  but  absolutely  dared  not  go  there, 
lest  some  panther  might  lie  in  wait,  and  spring  upon  me.  Hy 
and  by  a  deer  whistled.  I  had  n<'ver  heard  (me  before,  and 
thought  it  must  be  a  panther.  I  now  felt  uneasy  lest  he  migiil 
climb  the  trees,  crawl  along  the  brandies  overhead,  and  i)lnnip 
down  upon  me  ;  so  1  kei)t  my  eyes  lixed  on  the  branches,  until 


, 


EARLY  EXPEUTKNCEf^  OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD.      119 


so  many 

their  proy 

•  my  oliscr- 

i'<l  to  cluini 

If  any  one 

seize  aiul 

thought  I, 

it  the  whole 

)\H>(\  tlu'old 

oaded  and 

all  the  rest 

tint  feelin<2;3 
k'ated  spirit, 
i  iiinliL  drew 
)  collcH't  dry 

Ity,  and  to 
iMi  bewail  to 
n'cral  times 

n  coinpara- 
L're  were  no 
vas  my  first 
1  made  son- 
need  :  there 
0  as  if  there 
id  whininf^. 
|)arts,  thrust 
lem  on  end 
'he  smell  of 
i,  and  their 
;  all  around 
.'  of  one  of 

new  to  lie  a 
[inthcrs,  and 
ndinsi'  (huk- 
:uid  tinkling 
r)t  jjfo  there, 
on  me.  Hy 
before,  and 
est  he  niiiilit 
,  and  i)hmip 
iuclies,  until 


my  li('a<l  aehed.  I  more  than  once  thou<?ht  I  saw  fiery  eyes 
glariiiij  down  from  amon<^  the  leaves.  At  lenj^th  I  thoujfht  of 
my  supper  and  turned  to  see  if  my  half  vurkey  was  cooked. 
In  crowding  so  near  the  fire  I  had  pressed  the  meat  into  the 
rtanies,  and  it  was  consumed.  I  luul  nothing  to  do  but  toast 
the  other  half,  and  take  better  care  of  it.  On  that  half  I  made 
my  supper,  without  salt  or  liread.  1  was  still  so  possessed 
with  the  dread  of  panthers,  that  I  could  not  close  my  eyes  all 
nigiit,  l>ut  lay  watching  the  trees  until  daybreak,  when  all  my 
foais  wi're  dispelled  with  the  darkness  ;  anil  as  I  saw  the  morn- 
inu;  sun  sparkling  down  through  the  branches  of  the  trees,  I 
smiled  to  think  how  I  had  suffered  myself  to  be  dismayed  by 
sounds  and  shadows :  but  I  was  a  young  woodsman,  and  a 
stranger  in  Kentucky. 

"Having  breakfasted  on  the  remainder  of  my  turkey,  and 
ylaked  my  thirst  at  the  bubbling  stream,  without  further  dread 
of  panthers,  1  resumed  my  wayfaring  with  buoyant  feelings. 
1  again  saw  deer,  but  as  usual  running,  running !  1  tried  in 
vain  to  get  a  shot  at  them,  and  Ix'gan  to  fear  I  never  should. 
I  was  gazing  with  vexation  after  a  herd  in  full  scamper,  when  I 
was  startled  by  a  human  voice.  Turning  round,  I  saw  a  man 
at  a  short  distance  from  me,  in  a  hunting  dress. 

"  '  What  are  you  after,  my  lad? '  cried  he. 

"  'Those  deer,'  replied  I,  pettishly  ;   ■  but  it  seems  as  if  they 
never  stand  still.' 

"  Upon  that  he  burst  out  laughing.  '  Where  are  you  from? ' 
said  he. 

"  '  From  Richmond.' 

"  '  What !     In  old  Virginny  ?  ' 

"'The  same.' 

"  '  And  how  on  earth  did  you  get  here? ' 

"  '  I  landed  at  Green  River  from  a  l)road-hcrn. 

"  '  And  where  are  your  companions?  * 

"  '  I  have  none.' 

'"  What?  — all  alone!' 

"'Yes.' 

"  '  Where  are  you  going?  * 

"  '  Anywhere.' 

"  '  And  what  have  you  come  here  for? ' 

"'To  hunt.' 

"'Well,'  said  he,  laughingly,  'you'll  make  a  real  hunter; 
there's  no  mistaking  that !     Ilave  you  killed  any  thing?  ' 

"  '  Nothing  but  a  turkey  ;  I  can't  get  within  shot  of  a  deer: 
they  are  always  running.' 


m 


120 


THE  CRAYON   PAPERH. 


t  ' 


i<  i 


|.   ! 


«^ 


"  '  Oh,  I'll  tell  you  tlio  secret  of  tlmt.  You're  always  pusliint; 
forward,  and  startiiij";  the  deer  at  a  distanee,  and  fiazinj;  at 
those  tiiat  are  seaniperinia; ;  but  you  must  step  as  slow,  nml 
silent,  and  cautious  as  a  cat,  and  keep  your  eyes  close  around 
you,  and  lurk  from  tree  to  tree,  if  you  wish  to  jjjet  a  chance  at 
deer.  But  come,  go  home  with  :ne.  My  name  is  Mill  Suiithers; 
I  live  not  far  off :  stay  with  me  u  little  while,  and  I'll  teach  you 
how  to  hunt.' 

"  I  gladly  accepted  the  invitation  of  honest  Hill  Smitiierg. 
We  soon  reached  his  habitation  ;  a  mere  log  hut,  with  a  s(iu!uc 
hole  for  a  window,  and  a  chimney  made  of  sticks  and  cliiv. 
Here  he  lived,  with  a  wife  and  child.  He  had  '  girdled '  the 
trees  for  an  acre  or  two  around,  preparatory  to  cleaving  u 
space  for  corn  and  potatoes.  In  the  mean  time  he  maintaiiicil 
his  family  entirely  by  his  rifle,  and  I  soon  found  him  to  hi;  u 
tirst-rate  huntsman.  I'nder  his  tuti'lage  I  received  my  first 
effective  lessons  in  'woodcraft.' 

"The  more  I  knew  of  a  hunter's  life,  the  more  I  relished  it. 
The  country,  too,  wliich  had  been  the  promised  land  of  my 
boyhood,  did  not,  liki;  most  promised  lands,  disappoint  ine. 
No  wilderness  couhl  be  more  beautiful  than  this  part  of  Ken- 
tucky, in  those  times.  The  forests  were  open  and  spacious, 
with  noble  trees,  some  of  which  looked  as  if  they  had  st(X)d  for 
centuries.  Then'  were  beautiful  prairies,  too,  diversified  with 
groves  and  clumps  of  trees,  whicij  looked  like  vast  parks,  and 
in  which  you  could  see  the  deer  running,  at  a  great  distance. 
In  the  proper  season  these  prairies  would  be  covered  in  many 
places  with  wild  strawberries,  where  your  horse's  hoofs  would 
be  dyed  to  the  fetlock.  1  thought  there  could  not  be  aiiother 
place  in  the  world  equal  to  Kentucky  —  and  I  think  so  still. 

"After  I  had  passed  ten  or  twelve  days  with  Hill  Smithers, 
I  thought  it  time  to  shift  my  quarters,  for  his  house  was  scarce 
large  enough  for  his  own  family,  and  I  had  no  idea  of  being  an 
incumbrance  to  any  one.  I  accordingly  maile  up  my  bundle, 
shouldered  my  rifle,  took  a  friendly  leave  of  Smithers  and  his 
wife,  and  set  out  in  quest  of  a  Nimrod  of  the  wilderness,  one 
John  Miller,  who  lived  alone,  nearly  forty  miles  off,  and  who  I 
hoped  would  be  well  pleased  to  have  a  hunting  companion. 

"  I  soon  found  out  that  one  of  the  most  important  items  in 
woodcraft  in  a  new  country  was  the  skill  to  find  one's  way  in 
the  wilderness.  There  were  no  regular  roads  in  the  forests, 
but  they  were  cut  up  and  perplexed  by  paths  leading  in  all 
directions.  Some  of  these  were  made  by  the  cattle  of  the  set- 
tlers, and  were  called  '  stock-tracks,'  but  others  had  been  niade 


EAELT  EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RINOWOOD.       121 

by  the  immcnso  droves  of  buffaloes  which  roamed  about  the 
country,  from  the  flood  until  recent  times.  These  were  caUed 
l)uff!ilo-tracks,  and  traversed  Kentucky  from  end  to  end,  like 
liij,'hway8.  Traces  of  them  may  still  be  seen  in  uncultivated 
parts,  or  deeply  worn  in  the  rocks  where  they  crossed  the 
mountains.  1  was  a  young  woodsman,  and  sorely  puzzled  to 
(llritiuguish  one  kind  of  track  from  the  other,  or  to  make  out 
jiiy  course  tlirouij;li  this  tangled  labyrinth.  While  thus  per- 
plexed, I  heard  a  distant  roaring  and  rushing  sound ;  a  gloom 
stole  over  the  forest :  on  looking  up,  when  I  could  catch  a  stray 
glitiipse  of  the  sky,  I  beheld  the  clouds  rolled  up  like  balls,  the 
lower  parts  as  black  as  ink.  There  was  now  and  then  an  ex- 
plosion, like  a  burst  of  cannonry  afar  off,  and  the  crash  of  a 
falling  tree.  I  had  heard  of  hurricanes  in  the  woods,  and  sur- 
mised that  one  was  at  hand.  It  soon  came  crashing  its  way; 
the  forest  writhing,  and  twisting,  and  groaning  before  it.  The 
hurnctine  did  not  extend  far  on  either  side,  but  in  a  manner 
plougiied  a  furrow  through  the  woodland ;  snapping  off  or  up- 
rooting trees  that  had  stood  for  centuries,  and  filling  the  air 
witli  whirling  branches.  I  was  directly  in  its  course,  aud  took 
my  stand  behind  an  immense  poplar,  six  feet  in  diameter.  It 
l)ore  for  a  time  the  full  fury  of  the  blast,  but  at  length  began 
to  yield.  Seeing  it  falling,  I  scrambled  nimbly  round  the  trunk 
like  a  squirrel.  Down  it  went,  bearing  down  another  tree  with 
it.  I  crept  under  the  trunk  as  a  shelter,  and  was  protected 
fioui  other  tives  which  fell  around  me,  but  was  sore  all  over 
from  the  twigs  and  branches  driven  against  me  by  the  blast. 

"  This  was  the  only  incident  of  consequence  that  occurred 
ou  my  way  to  .John  Miller's,  where  I  arrived  on  the  following 
(lay,  and  was  reeeivod  by  the  veteran  with  the  rough  kindness 
of  a  backwoodsman.  He  was  a  gray-haired  man,  hardy  and 
weiitlier-beatcn,  with  a  blue  wart,  like  a  great  bead,  over  one 
eye,  whence  he  was  nicknamed  by  the  hunters  '  Blue-bead  Mil- 
ler.' He  had  been  in  these  parts  from  the  earliest  settlements, 
aud  had  signalized  himself  in  che  hard  conflicts  with  the  In- 
dians, which  gained  Kentucky  the  appellation  of  '  the  Bloody 
Ground.'  In  one  of  these  figlits  he  had  had  an  arm  broken; 
in  another  he  had  narrowly  escaped,  when  hotly  pursued,  by 
jumping  from  a  precipice  thirty  feet  high  into  a  river. 

"  Miller  willingly  received  me  into  his  house  as  an  inmate, 
tuul  seemed  pleased  with  the  idea  of  making  a  hunter  of  me. 
His  dwelling  was  a  small  log  house,  with  a  loft  or  garret  of 
hoards,  so  that  there  was  ample  room  for  both  of  us.  Under 
ills  instructioa  I  soon  made  a  tolerable  proficiency  iu  hunting. 


II 


Li 


ill 


i\ 


i»  i 


h  I 


122 


THE  CRAYON   PAPERS. 


I 


I 


\i    i 


My  first  exploit,  of  any  consequence,  was  killins;  a  bear.  1 
was  liiinting  in  coniptiuy  with  two  hrotliers,  when  we  came 
upon  the  track  of  Bruin,  in  a  wood  where  there  was  an  undci- 
growtli  of  canes  and  grape-vines.  He  was  scramhling  up  a  tree, 
when  I  shot  him  througli  the  hreast :  lie  fell  to  the  ground  and 
lay  motionless.  The  hrotliers  sent  in  the!  '  dog,  wlio  seized  the 
bear  by  the  throat.  Hruin  raised  one  arm,  and  gave  tiie  dog  a 
hug  that  crushed  his  ribs.  One  yell,  and  all  was  over.  I  don't 
know  which  was  first  dead,  the  dog  or  tlie  bear.  The  two 
brothers  sat  down  and  cried  like  children  over  tlieir  unfortunate 
dog.  Yet  they  weie  mere  rough  huntsmen,  almost  as  wild  and 
untamable  as  Indians  :  but  they  were  line  fellows. 

"  By  degrees  I  became  known,  and  somewhat  of  a  favorite 
among  the  hunters  of  the  neighborhood  :  that  is  to  say,  men 
who  lived  within  a  circle  of  thirt}-  or  forty  miles,  and  came 
occasionally  to  see  John  Miller,  who  was  a  patriarcli  among 
them.  Tliey  lived  widely  apart,  in  log  nuts  and  wigwams, 
almost  with  the  simplicity  of  Indians,  and  well-nigli  as  destitute 
of  the  comforts  and  inventions  of  civilized  life.  Tiiey  seldom 
saw  each  other ;  weeks,  and  even  months  would  elapse,  witliont 
their  visiting.  When  they  did  meet,  it  w;is  vt-ry  much  after  tlu' 
manner  of  Indians ;  loitering  about  all  day,  witliont  having 
iiiuch  to  say,  but  becoming  communicative  as  evening  advanced, 
and  sitting  up  half  the  night  before  the  lire,  telling  luuituig 
stories,  and  terrible  tales  of  tlie  iiglits  of  the  Bloody  (J  round. 

"  Sometimes  several  would  join  in  a  distant  hunting  ex[)e- 
dition,  or  rather  camj^aign.  Expeditions  of  this  kind  lasted 
from  November  until  April ;  during  which  we  laid  up  our  stock 
of  summer  provisions.  \Ve  shifted  our  hunting  camps  i'lom 
place  to  place,  according  as  we  found  the  game.  They  \>','iv 
generally  pitched  near  a  run  of  water,  and  close  by  a  c.'ine- 
brake,  to  screen  us  from  the  wind.  One  side  of  our  lodge  was 
open  toward  the  lire.  Our  horses  were  hoppled  and  tiirne  1 
loose  in  the  cane-brakes,  with  bells  round  their  necks.  One  of 
the  party  staid  at  home  to  watch  the  camp,  i)ivp:uc  the  meals, 
and  keep  off  the  wolves  ;  the  others  hunted.  When  a  hunter 
killed  a  deer  at  a  distance  from  the  camp,  he  would  open  it  and 
takeout  the  entrails;  then  cliinl)ing  a  SMpling.  he  would  bend 
it  down,  tie  the  deer  to  the  top,  and  lei  it  s|)iiiig  up  again,  m> 
as  to  susi)end  the  carcass  out  of  reach  of  tin-  wohes.  At  night 
he  would  return  tc  the  camp,  and  give  an  account  of  his  luck. 
The  next  morning  early  he  would  get  a  horse  out  of  the  ( anc- 
brake,  and  bring  home  his  game.  That  day  he  would  .stay  ;it 
borne  to  cut  up  the  careusH,  while  the  others  hunted. 


I    i 


|r 


M 


I  bear.    1 

we   came 

an  undcr- 

?  lip  fi  tree, 

round  and 

seizod  the 

the  dorr  r^ 

I  don't 
Tlie  two 
m  fortunate 
s  wild  and 

a  favorite 
Hay,  men 

and  carnu 
I'cli   anionir 

wiowanis, 

i-s  destitute 

liey  seldom 

se,  without 

Ii  after  the 

i>nt   havin<f 

:  advaneeii, 

iiji  luuilinir 

ti  round. 

itinii  cx'pe- 

^iTi(i    lusted 

•  our  stock 
in)|>s  iVoMi 
They  \ver(.' 
>y  a  cMiie- 

l<)(l<>e  was 
M(i    tiirne.l 

•  One  of 
the  meals, 
1  a  lituiter 
pen  it  and 
ould  hend 

again,  so 

At  niiiht 

liis  luck. 

the  ( anc- 

Id  .stay  at 


EARLY  EXPERIENCES   OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD.      123 

"  Our  daj's  were  thus  spent  in  silent  and  lonely  occupations. 
It  was  only  at  night  that  we  would  gather  together  before  the 
fire,  and  be  sociable.  1  was  a  novice,  and  used  to  listen  with 
open  eyes  and  ears  to  the  strange  and  wild  stories  told  by  the 
old  hunters,  and  believed  every  thing  I  heard.  Home  of  their 
stories  bordered  upon  the  sui)ernatural.  They  believed  that 
tlieir  rilles  might  l)e  spell-bound,  so  as  not  to  l)c  able  to  kill  a 
jiutTalo,  even  at  arm's  length.  This  superstition  they  had  de- 
rived from  the  Indians,  wlio  often  think  the  white  hunters  have 
hiid  a  spell  up(jn  their  rifles.  Miller  partook  of  this  super- 
stition, and  used  to  tell  of  his  riHe's  having  a  spell  upon  it ;  but 
it  often  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  shulfling  way  of  accounting  for  a 
bad  shot.  If  a  hunter  grossly  missed  his  aim  he  would  ask, 
'  Who  shot  last  with  this  ritle?'  —  and  hint  that  he  must  have 
eliarmed  it.  The  sure  mode  to  disenchant  the  gun  was  to  shoot 
a  silver  bullet  out  of  it. 

"■  IJy  the  o()ening  of  spring  we  would  generally  have  quanti- 
ties of  l)ear's-meat  and  venison  salted,  dried,  and  smoked,  and 
numerous  packs  of  skins.  We  would  then  make  the  best  of  our 
way  houit!  from  our  distant  hunting-grounds  ;  transporting  our 
spoils,  sometimes  in  canoes  along  the  rivers,  sometimes  on  horse- 
liack  (ner  land,  and  our  return  would  often  be  celebrated  by 
feasting  and  dancing,  in  true  backwoods  style.  1  have  given 
you  some  idea  of  our  hunting ;  let  me  now  give  you  a  sketch  of 
our  frolicking. 

"  It  was  on  our  return  from  a  winter's  hunting  in  the  neigh- 
litnliood  of  (ireen  River,  when  we  received  notice  that  there 
was  to  be  a  grand  frolic  at  Hob  Mosely's,  to  greet  the  hunters. 
This  l»()b  Mosely  was  a  prime  fellow  throughout  the  country. 
He  was  an  indifferent  hunter,  it  is  true,  and  rather  lazy  to  boot; 
but  then  h(!  could  play  the  fiddle,  and  that  was  enough  to  make 
him  of  conscipience.  There  was  no  other  man  within  a  hundred 
miles  that  could  play  the  fiddle,  so  there  was  no  having  a  regu- 
lar frolic  without  Hob  Mosely.  The  hunters,  therefore,  were 
always  reatly  to  g'v.'  him  a  share  of  their  game  in  exchange  for 
his  music,  and  Bob  was  always  ready  to  get  up  a  carousal, 
whenever  theie  was  a  iiarty  returning  from  a  hunting  expedi- 
tion. The  present  frolic  was  to  take  place  at  Bob  Mosely's 
own  house,  which  was  on  the  Pigeon  Roost  Fork  of  the  Muddy, 
which  is  a  branch  of  Rough  Creek,  which  is  a  branch  of  Green 
River. 

"  Everybody  was  agog  for  the  revel  at  Bob  Mosely's  ;  and  as 
all  the  fashion' of  the  neighborhood  was  to  be  there,  I  thought 
1  uiust  brush  up  foi'  the  ocuusiou.     My  leathern  hunting-dress, 


I'D    i 

■J  '     .     i 

'i     ^ 

i 

} 

I' 


124 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


\i    , 


VI     S 


I-     ! 


which  was  the  only  one  I  had,  waS  somewhat  the  worse  fov 
wear,  it  is  true,  and  considerably  japanned  with  blood  and 
grease ;  but  I  was  up  to  hunting  expedients.  Getting  into  a 
periogue,  I  paddled  oflF  to  a  part  of  the  Green  River  wliero 
there  was  sand  and  clay,  that  might  serve  for  soap  ;  then  takiii(r 
off  my  dress,  I  scrubbed  and  scoured  it,  until  I  thought  it  lookcii 
vpry  well.  I  then  put  it  on  the  end  of  a  stick,  and  hung  it  out 
ot  tiK;  periogue  to  dry,  while  I  stretched  myself  very  comfort- 
ably on  the  green  bank  of  the  river.  Unluckily  a  flaw  struck 
the  [)eriogue,  and  tipped  over  the  stick :  down  went  my  flross 
to  the  bottom  of  the  river,  and  I  n>?vei'  saw  it  more.  Here  was 
I,  left  almost  in  a  state  of  nature.  I  managed  to  make  a  kind 
of  Robinson  Crusoe  garb  of  undressed  skins,  with  the  hair  on. 
which  enabled  me  to  get  home  with  decency ;  but  my  dream  of 
gayety  and  fashion  was  at  an  end  ;  for  how  could  I  think  of 
figuring  in  high  life  at  the  Pigeon  Roost,  equipped  like  a  mere 
Orson  ? 

"  Old  Miller,  who  ri'ally  began  to  take  some  pride  in  me,  was 
confounded  when  he  understood  that  I  did  not  intend  io  go  to 
Bob  Mosely's ;  but  when  I  told  him  my  misfortune,  and  that  I 
had  no  dress :  '  By  the  powers,'  cried  he,  '  but  you  shall  go,  and 
you  shall  be  the  oest  dressed  and  the  best  mounted  lad  there  I ' 

"  He  immediately  set  to  work  to  cut  out  and  make  up  a  hunt- 
ing-shirt of  dreased  deer-skin,  gayly  fringed  at  the  shoulders, 
with  leggings  of  the  same,  fringed  from  hip  to  heel.  Ho  then 
made  me  a  rakish  raccoon-cap,  with  a  flaunting  tail  to  it; 
mounted  me  on  his  best  horse  ;  and  I  may  say,  without  vanity, 
that  I  was  one  of  the  smartest  fellows  that  flgured  on  that  occa- 
sion, at  the  Pigeon  Roost  Fork  of  the  Muddy. 

"It  was  no  small  occasion,  either,  let  me  tell  you.  Boh 
Mosely's  house  was  a  tolerably  large  bark  shnnty,  with  a  clap- 
board roof ;  and  there  were  assembled  all  the  j'oung  hunters  and 
pretty  girls  of  the  country,  for  many  a  mile  round.  The  young 
men  were  in  their  best  huntinjt-dresscs,  but  not  one  could  com- 
pare with  mi  }e ;  and  my  racoon-cap,  with  its  flowing  tail,  was 
the  admiration  of  everybody.  The  girls  were  mostly  in  doe-skiu 
dresses ;  for  there  was  no  spinning  and  weaving  as  yet  in  the 
woods ;  nor  any  need  of  it.  I  never  saw  girls  that  seemed  to 
me  better  dressed  ;  and  I  was  somewhat  of  a  judge,  having  seen 
fashions  at  Ricinnond.  We  had  a  hearty  dinner,  and  a  merry 
one ;  for  there  was  Jemmy  Kiel,  famous  for  raccoon-hunting, 
and  Bob  Tarleton,  and  Wesley  Pigman,  and  Joe  Taylor,  and 
several  other  prime  fellows  for  a  frolic,  that  made  all  ring  again, 
and  laughed,  that  you  might  have  heard  them  a  mile. 


EARLY  EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RING  WOOD.      125 


e  worse  foi 
^lood  and 
tting  into  a 
River  where 
then  takinrr 
2;ht  it  loolvi'ii 
hung  it  out 
ry  comfort- 
flaw  struck 
;it  my  flress 
Here  was 
lake  a  kind 
the  hair  on. 
ly  dream  of 
I  think  of 
like  a  mere 

?  in  me,  was 
1(1  to  go  to 

and  that  I 
•hall  go,  and 
lad  there ! ' 
e  up  a  hunt- 
2  shoulders, 
.     He  then 

tail  to  it; 
lout  vanity, 
>n  that  occa- 

you.  Boh 
vith  a  clap- 
hunters  and 

The  young 

could  coin- 
II g  tail,  was 

in  doe-skin 
1  yet  in  the 
;  seemed  to 
having  seen 
tid  a  merry 
on-hunting, 
raylor,  and 

ring  again, 


"  After  dinner  we  began  dancing,  and  were  hard  at  it,  when, 
about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  there  was  a  new  arrival  — 
the  two  daughters  of  old  Simon  Schultz  ;  two  young  ladies  that 
affected  fashion  and  late  hours.  Their  arrival  had  nearly  put 
an  end  to  all  our  merriment.  I  must  go  a  little  roundabout  in 
mv  story  to  explain  to  you  how  that  happened. 

"As  old  Sciiultz,  the  father,  was  one  day  looking  in  the  cane- 
brakes  for  his  cattle,  he  came  upon  the  track  of  horses.  He  knew 
they  were  none  of  his,  and  that  none  of  his  neighbors  had  horses 
;il)0ut  that  place.  They  must  be  stray  horses ;  or  must  belong 
to  some  traveller  who  had  lost  his  way,  as  the  track  led  nowhere. 
He  accordingly  followed  it  up,  until  he  came  to  an  unlucky  ped- 
ler,  with  two  or  three  pack-horses,  who  had  been  bewildered 
anioni;;  the  cattle-tracks,  and  had  wandered  for  two  or  three  days 
among  woods  and  cane-brakes,  until  he  was  almost  famished. 

"  Old  Schultz  brought  him  to  his  house  ;  fed  him  on  venison, 
bear's  meat,  and  hominy,  and  at  the  end  of  a  week  put  him  in 
prime  condition.  The  pedler  could  not  sufficiently  express  his 
thankfulness  ;  and  when  about  to  depart,  inquired  what  he  had 
to  pay  ?  Old  Schultz  stepped  back  with  surprise.  '  Strang 
said  he,  *  you  javc  been  welcome  under  my  roof.  I've  given 
you  nothing  but  wild  meat  and  hominy,  because  I  had  no  better, 
but  have  been  glad  of  your  company.  You  are  welcome  to  stay 
as  long  as  you  please  ;  but,  by  Zounds  !  if  any  one  offers  to  pay 
Simon  Schultz  for  food  he  affronts  him  ! '  So  saying,  he  walked 
out  in  a  huff. 

"The  pedler  admired  the  hospitality  of  his  host,  but  could 
not  reconcile  it  to  his  conscience  to  go  away  without  making 
some  recompense.  There  were  honest  Simon's  two  daughters, 
two  strapping,  red-haired  girls.  He  opened  his  packs  and  dis- 
played riches  before  them  of  which  they  had  no  conception ;  for 
in  those  days  there  were  no  country  stores  in  those  parts,  with 
their  artificial  finery  and  trinketry  ;  and  this  was  the  first  pedler 
that  had  wandered  into  that  part  of  the  wilderness.  The  girls 
were  for  a  time  comiiietely  dazzled,  and  knew  not  what  to 
choose  :  but  what  caught  their  eyes  most  were  two  looking- 
glasses,  about  the  size  of  a  dollar,  set  in  gilt  tin.  They  had 
never  seen  the  like  before,  having  used  no  other  mirror  than  a 
pail  of  water.  The  pedler  presented  them  these  jewels,  with- 
out the  least  hesitation;  nay,  he  gallantly  hung  them  round 
their  necks  by  red  ribbons,  almost  as  fine  as  the  glasses  them- 
selves. This  done,  he  took  his  departure,  leaving  them  as 
much  astonished  as  two  princesses  in  a  fairy  talc,  that  have  re- 
ceived a  magic  gift  from  an  enchanter 


126 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


' 


.  I . 


"It  was  with  those  looking-glasses,  hung  round  their  necks 
as  lockets,  by  red  ril)l)ons,  that  old  Sclniltz's  daughters  made 
their  appearance  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  at  the  frolic 
at  Bob  Mosely's,  on  the  Pigeon  Koost  Fork  of  the  Muddy. 

''By  the  powers,  but  it  was  an  event!  Such  a  thing  hud 
never  before  been  seen  in  Kentuck}'.  BobTarleton,  a  stnippintr 
fellow,  with  a  lieud  like  a  chestnut-burr,  and  a  look  like  a  l)oar 
in  an  apple  orchard,  stepped  up,  caught  hold  of  the  lookin<T. 
glass  of  one  of  the  girls,  and  gazing  at  it  for  a  nioiiicnl,  cried 
out :  '  Joe  Taylor,  come  here  !  come  here  !  I'll  be  darn'd  if 
Patty  Schultz  ain't  got  a  locket  that  you  can  see  your  face  in, 
as  clear  as  in  a  spring  of  water ! ' 

"•  In  a  twinkling  all  the  young  hunters  gathered  round  old 
Schultz's  daughters.  I,  who  knew  what  looking-glasses  were, 
did  not  budge.  Some  of  the  girls  who  sat  near  me  were  exces- 
sively mortified  at  finding  themselves  thus  deserted.  I  heard 
Pcgg}'  Pugh  say  to  Sally  Pigman,  '  CJoodncss  knows,  it's  well 
Schultz's  daugliters  is  got  tliem  things  round  their  necks,  for 
it's  tlie  first  time  the  young  men  crowded  round  them  I  ' 

"•  I  saw  immediately  tl»e  danger  of  the  case.  We  were  a 
Bmall  community,  anil  could  not  afford  to  be  split  up  by  feuds. 
So  I  stei)j)ed  up  to  the  girls,  and  wliis[)cred  to  them  :  •  Polly,' 
said  I,  '  those  lockets  uu-  powerful  fine,  and  become  j'ou  aiiiaz- 
inuly  ;  but  you  don't  consider  that  the  country  is  not  advanced 
enough  in  these  parts  for  such  thin<';s.  You  and  I  understand 
tlicse  matters,  but  those  people  ^(on't.  Fine  tilings  like  these 
may  do  very  well  in  the  old  settlements,  but  they  won't  an- 
swer at  the  I'igeon  Hoost  Fork  of  the  Muddy.  You  had  better 
lay  thcju  aside  for  the  present,  or  we  shall  have  no  i)eace.' 

"  Polly  and  her  sister  luckily  saw  their  error;  they  took  off 
the  lockets,  laid  thein  aside,  and  IiMvmony  was  restored  :  other- 
wise, 1  verily  believe  there  would  have  been  an  end  of  our 
eonmnmity.  Indeed,  notwithstanding  the  great  sacrifice  they 
made  on  this  occasion,  I  do  not  think  old  Schultz's  daughters 
were  ever  much  liked  afterward  among  the  young  women. 

"This  was  the  first  time  that  looking-glasses  were  ever  seen 
in  the  Green  Hlver  [lart  of  Kentucky. 

"1  had  now  lived  some  time  with  old  Miller,  and  had  become 
a  tolerably  expert  hunter.  (Jaine,  however,  began  fo  grow 
fcarce.  The  buffalo  had  gathered  togetiior,  as  if  by  universal 
understanding,  and  had  crossed  the  Mississip[>i,  never  to  re- 
turn. Strangers  kept  pouring  into  the  country,  clo'iring  away 
tlie  forests,  and  building  in  all  directions.  The  lumtcivs  began 
to    grow    restive.     Jemmy    Kiel,    the    same   of    whom    I    Ir.ivw 


I  their  necks 
gliters  made 
at  the  frolic 
Muddy. 

a    iU'uvr    hu(J 

,  a  strapping 
like  a  hoar 

the  looking, 
luiueiit,  cried 

»e  darii'd  if 
/our  face  in, 

d  round  old 

>las,ses  were, 

were  exccs- 

ed.     I  heard 

)\vs,  it's  well 

'ir  necks,  for 

ml  ' 

AVe  were  a 

III)  '^y  ft-'iids. 

em  :   •  I'olly,' 

le  you  auiaz- 

lot  advanced 

I  understand 

ijs  like  these 

cy  won't  an- 

ju  had  heller 

I  l)eaee.' 

they  took  off 

.ored  :    otlier- 

end   of  our 

iaerilice  they 

'-'s  daughters 

rvomen. 

.'re  ever  seen 

1  had  hecoine 
iau  to  <j;ro\v 
hy  universal 
never  to  re- 
leariuij;  away 
iinlcrs  he^an 
hum    1    huvw 


EARLY  EAPERIEYCES   OF  RALPn  RING  WOOD.     127 


raccoon  catching,  came  to  rae 
any  longer, '  said   he  ; 
Schultz  crowds  me  so 


'  we  re 
that  I 


already  spoken  for  his  skill  in 
one  day :  '  I  can't  stand  this 
getting  too  thick  here.  Simon 
have  no  comfort  of  my  life.' 

"  '  Why,  how  you  talk ! '  said  I ;  '  Simon  Schultz  lives 
twelve  miles  ofiF.' 

"  '  No  matter  ;  his  cattle  run  with  mine,  and  I've  no  idea  of 
hving  where  another  man's  cattle  can  run  with  mine.  That's  too 
close  neighborhood  •  I  want  elbow-room.  This  country,  too, 
is  growing  too  poor  to  live  in  ;  there's  no  game ;  so  two  or 
three  of  us  have  made  up  our  minds  to  follow  the  buffalo  to 
the  Missouri,  and  we  should  like  to  have  you  of  the  party,' 
Other  hunters  of  my  acquaintance  talked  in  the  same  manner. 
This  set  me  thinking ;  but  the  more  I  thought  the  more  I  was 
perplexed.  1  had  no  one  to  advise  with ;  old  Miller  and  h.is 
associates  knew  but  of  one  mode  of  life,  and  I  had  had  no  expe- 
rience in  any  other  :  but  I  had  a  wider  scope  of  thought.  Whej 
out  hunting  alone  I  used  to  forget  the  sport,  and  sit  for  hours 
together  on  the  trunk  of  a  tree,  with  rifle  in  hand,  buried  in 
thought,  and  debating  with  myself :  '  Shall  I  go  with  Jemmy 
Kiel  and  his  company,  or  shall  I  remain  here?  If  I  remain 
here  there  will  soon  be  nothing  left  to  hunt ;  but  am  I  to  be  a 
hunter  all  my  life  ?  Have  not  I  something  more  in  me  than  to 
he  carrying  a  rifle  on  my  shoulder,  day  after  day,  and  dodging 
about  after  bears,  and  deer,  and  other  brute  beasts?'  My 
vanity  told  me  I  had ;  and  I  called  to  mind  my  boyish  boast 
to  my  sister,  that  I  would  never  return  home,  until  I  returned 
a  member  of  Congress  from  Kentucky ;  but  was  this  the  way 
to  fit  myself  for  such  a  station? 

"•  A^arious  plans  passed  through  my  mind,  but  they  were 
abandoned  almost  as  soon  as  formed.  At  length  I  determined 
on  becoming  a  lawyer.  True  it  is,  I  knew  almost  nothing.  I 
had  left  school  before  I  had  learned  beyond  the  "  rule  of  three.' 
'Never  mind,'  said  I  to  myself,  resolutely;  '  I  am  a  terrible 
fellow  for  hanging  on  to  any  thing  when  I've  once  made  up  my 
mind  ;  and  if  a  man  has  but  ordinary  capacity,  and  will  set  to 
work  with  heart  and  soul,  and  stick  to  it,  he  can  do  almost 
any  thing.*  AVith  this  maxim,  which  has  been  pretty  much  my 
main-stay  throughout  life,  I  fortified  myself  in  my  determina- 
tion to  attempt  the  law.  But  how  was  I  to  set  about  it?  I 
nmsl  quit  this  forest  life,  and  go  to  one  or  other  of  the  towns, 
wlii're  I  might  be  able  to  study,  and  to  attend  the  courts.  This 
loo  re(juired  funds.  I  examined  into  the  state  of  my  finances. 
The  purse  given  me  by  my  father  had  remained  untouched,  in 


^1 


H 


128 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


the  bottom  of  an  old  chest  up  in  the  loft,  for  money  was 
scarcely  needed  in  these  parts.  I  had  bargained  away  the 
skins  acquired  in  hunting,  for  a  horse  and  various  other  mat- 
ters, on  which,  in  case  of  need,  1  could  raise  funds.  I  there- 
fore thought  1  could  make  shift  to  maintain  myself  until  1  was 
fitted  for  the  bar. 

"  I  informed  my  worthy  host  and  patron,  old  INIiller,  of  my 
plan.  He  shook  his  head  at  my  turning  my  back  upon  the 
woods,  when  I  was  in  a  fair  way  of  making  a  lirst-rate  hunter ; 
but  he  made  no  effort  to  dissuade  me.  I  accordingly  set  off 
in  September,  on  horseback,  intending  to  visit  Lexington, 
Frankfort,  and  other  of  the  principal  towns,  in  searcli  of  a 
favorable  place  to  prosecute  my  studies.  My  choice  was  made 
sooner  than  I  expected.  I  had  put  up  one  night  at  Bardslown, 
and  found,  on  inquiry,  that  I  could  get  comfortable  board  and 
accommodation  in  a  private  family  for  a  dollar  and  a  lialf  a 
week.  I  liked  the  place,  and  resolved  to  look  no  farther.  So 
the  next  morning  I  prepared  to  turn  my  face  homeward,  and 
take  my  final  leave  of  forest  life. 

"  I  had  taken  my  breakfast,  and  was  waiting  for  my  liorse, 
when,  in  pacing  up  and  down  the  piazza,  I  saw  a  young  girl 
seated  near  a  window,  evidently  a  visitor.  .She  was  very  pretty ; 
wiiih  auburn  hair  and  blue  eyes,  and  was  dressed  in  white.  I 
had  seen  nothing  of  the  kind  since  I  had  ipeft  Richmond ;  aiid 
at  that  time  I  was  too  much  of  a  boy  to  be  nnich  struck  by 
female  charms.  She  was  so  delicate  and  dainty-looking,  so  'af- 
ferent from  the  hale,  buxom,  brown  girls  of  the  woods  ;  and 
then  her  white  dress  !  —  it  was  perfectly  dazzling  !  Never  was 
poor  youth  more  taken  by  surprise,  and  suddenly  bewitched.  ]\ly 
heart  yearned  to  know  her  ;  but  how  was  I  to  accost  her  ?  I  had 
grown  wild  in  the  woods,  and  had  none  of  the  habitudes  of  polite 
life.  Had  she  been  like  Peggy  Pugh  or  Sally  I'igman,  or  any 
other  of  my  leathern-dressed  belles  of  the  Pigeon  Ixoost,  1  should 
have  approached  her  without  dread  ;  nay,  had  she  been  as  fair 
as  Schultz's  daughters,  with  their  looking-glass  lockets,  I  should 
not  have  hesitated  ;  but  that  white  dress,  and  those  auburn  ring- 
lets, and  blue  eyes,  and  delicate  looks,  quite  daunted,  while  tliey 
fascinated  me.  I  don't  know  what  put  it  into  my  head,  but  I 
thought,  all  at  once,  that  I  would  kiss  her  !  It  woukl  take  a  long 
acquaintance  to  arrive  at  such  a  boon,  but  I  might  seize  upon  it 
by  sheer  robbery.  Nobody  knew  me  here.  I  would  just  step 
in,  snatch  a  kiss,  mount  my  horse,  and  ride  off.  She  would  not 
be  the  worse  for  it,  and  that  kiss  —  oh!  I  should  die  if  1  did 
not  get  it  1 


loncy  was 

tiway   the 

)tlier  mjit- 

I  tliore- 

intil  1  was 

ler,  of  my 
iiI>on  the 
te  liuntor; 
sly  set  off 
t'xingtou, 
arch  of  a 
was  made 
ianlstown, 
board  and 
I  a  half  a 
rther.  .So 
3 ward,  and 

'  my  horse, 
youiijr  (firl 
ery  pictty ; 
|i  white.  I 
inond ;  uvA 
struck  by 
iut^.  so  'V{- 
n)0(h  ;  and 
Never  was 
tched.  My 
ler?  I  liad 
es  of  polite 
lan,  or  any 
5t,  I  should 
}en  as  fair 
.s,  I  should 
iiburn  ring- 
while  they 
licad,  but  I 
take  a  lorn: 
ize  upon  it 
I  just  step 
would  not 
ie  if  1  did 


EARLY  EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPU  RING  WOOD.      1 2' 

"  I  gave  no  time  for  the  thought  to  cool,  liut  entered  the  house, 
and  stepped  lightly  into  the;  room.  She  was  seated  with  her 
back  to  tlie  door,  looking  out  at  the  window,  and  did  not  hear 
my  approach.  I  tapped  her  chair,  and  as  she  turned  and  looked 
up,  I  snatched  as  sweet  a  kiss  as  ever  was  stolen,  and  vanished 
in  a  twinkling.  The  next  moment  1  was  on  horseback,  galloping 
homeward  ;  my  very  ears  tingling  at  wlitit  I  had  done. 

"  On  my  return  home  1  sold  luy  horse,  and  turued  every  thing 
to  cash  ;  and  found,  with  the  remains  of  the  paternal  purse,  that 
I  had  nearly  four  hundred  dollars  ;  a  little  capital  which  I  re- 
solved to  manage  with  the  strictest  economy. 

"It  was  hard  parting  with  old  Miller,  who  had  been  like  a 
father  to  me  ;  it  cost  me,  too,  something  of  a  struggle  to  give 
up  the  free,  independent  wild-wood  life  1  had  hitherto  led  ;  but 
I  had  marked  out  my  course,  and  had  never  been  one  to  flinch 
or  turn  back. 

"I  footed  it  sturdily  to  Bardstown  ;  took  possession  of  the 
quarters  for  which  I  had  bargained,  shut  myself  u[),  and  set  to 
work  with  might  and  main  to  study.  Hut  what  a  task  1  had 
bifore  me  !  1  had  every  thing  to  learn  ;  not  merely  law,  but  all 
the  elementary  branches  of  knowledge.  1  read  and  read,  for 
sixteen  hours  out  of  the  four-and-twenty  ;  but  the  more  I  read 
the  more  I  became  aware  of  my  own  ignorance,  and  shed  bitter 
tears  over  my  deficiency.  It  seemed  as  if  the  wilderness  of 
knowledge  expanded  and  grew  more  perplexed  as  1  advanced. 
Every  height  gained  only  revealed  a  wider  region  to  be  trav- 
ersed, and  nearly  fdled  me  with  despair.  1  grew  moody,  silent, 
and  unsocial,  but  studied  on  doggedly  and  incessantly.  The 
ohly  person  with  whom  I  iield  any  conversation  was  the  worthy 
man  in  whose  house  I  was  quartered.  He  was  honest  and  well- 
meaning,  but  perfectly  ignorant,  and  I  believe  would  have  liked 
me  much  better  if  I  had  not  been  so  much  addicted  to  reading. 
Fie  considered  all  books  filled  with  lies  and  impositions,  and 
seldom  could  look  into  one  without  finding  something  to  rouse 
bis  spleen.  Nothing  put  him  into  a  greater  passion  than  the 
assertion  that  the  world  turned  on  its  own  axis  every  four-and 
twenty  hours.  He  swore  it  was  an  outrage  upon  common  sense. 
*  Why,  if  it  did,'  said  he,  'there  would  not  hi'  a  drop  of  watet 
in  the  well  by  morning,  and  all  the  milk  and  cream  in  the  dairy 
would  be  turned  topsy-turvy  !  And  then  to  talk  of  the  earth 
going  round  the  sun!  How  do  they  know  it?  I've  seen  the 
Sim  rise  every  morning,  and  set  every  evening,  for  more  than 
tliirty  years.  They  must  not  talk  to  vie  about  the  earth's  going 
round  the  sun  ! ' 


M 


180 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


\  > 


'■i    ■  if 


Ml 


), 


•'  At  another  time  he  was  in  a  perfect  fret  at  being  told  the 
distance  between  the  sun  and  moon.  '  How  can  any  one  tell 
the  distance?'  cried  he.  'Who  surveyed  it?  who  carried  the 
chain  ?  By  Jupiter !  they  only  talk  this  way  before  nic  to  annoy 
me.  but  then  there's  some  people  of  sense  who  give  in  to  this 
cursed  humbug !  There's  Judge  Broadnax,  now,  one  of  the  best 
lawyers  we  have ;  isn't  it  surprising  he  should  believe  in  such 
stuff?  Why,  sir,  tht  other  day  I  heard  him  talk  of  the  distance 
from  a  star  he  called  Mars  to  the  sun  !  He  must  have  «fot  it 
out  of  one  or  other  of  those  confounded  books  he's  so  fond  of 
reading;  a  book  some  impudent  fellow  has  written,  who  knew 
nobody  could  swear  ttie  distance  was  more  or  less.' 

"P'or  my  own  part,  feeling  my  own  dofieieney  in  scientific 
lore,  I  never  ventured  to  unsettle  his  conviction  that  the  sun 
made  his  daily  circuit  round  the  earth  ;  and  for  aught  I  said  to 
the  contrary,  he  lived  and  died  in  that  belief. 

"  I  had  been  about  a  year  at  Bardstown,  living  thus  studiously 
and  reclusely,  when,  as  1  was  one  day  walking  the  street,  I  met 
two  young  girls,  in  one  of  whom  I  immediately  recalled  the  little 
beauty  whom  I  had  kissed  so  impudently.  She  blushed  up  to 
the  eyes,  and  so  did  I ;  but  we  both  passed  on  'vithout  further 
sign  of  recognition.  This  second  glimpse  of  her,  however, 
caused  an  odd  fluttering  abjut  my  heart.  I  could  not  get  her 
out  of  my  thoughts  for  days.  She  quite  interfered  with  my 
studies.  I  tried  to  think  of  her  as  a  mere  child,  l)ut  it  would 
not  do ;  she  had  improved  in  beauty,  and  was  tending  toward 
womanhood  ;  and  then  1  myself  was  but  little  l)etter  than  a 
stripling.  However,  I  did  not  attempt  to  seek  after  her,  or  even 
to  find  out  who  she  was,  but  returned  doggedly  to  my  books. 
By  degrees  she  faded  from  my  thoughts,  or  if  she  did  cross  them 
occasionally,  it  was  only  to  increase  my  despondency ;  for  I 
feared  that  with  all  my  exertions,  I  should  never  l>e  able  to  fit 
myself  for  the  bar,  or  ena1)le  myself  to  support  a  wife. 

"  One  cold  stormy  evening  I  was  seated,  in  dumpish  mood, 
in  the  bar-room  of  the  inn,  looking  into  the  fire,  and  turninf> 
over  uncomfortable  thoughts,  when  I  was  accosted  by  some 
one  who  had  entered  the  room  without  my  perceiving  it.  I 
looked  up,  and  saw  before  me  a  tall  and,  as  I  thought,  pom- 
pous-looking man,  arrayed  in  small-clothes  and  knee-buckles, 
with  powdered  head,  and  shoes  nicely  blacked  and  polished  ;  a 
style  of  dress  unparalleled  in  those  days,  in  that  rough  country. 
I  took  a  pique  against  him  from  the  very  portliness  of  his 
appearance,  and  stateliness  of  his  manner,  and  biistled  up  as 
he  accosted  me.     He  demanded  if  my  name  was  not  Hingwood. 


ig  told  the 
ny  one  tell 
ciirri(!il  the 
le  to  annoy 
e  in  to  this 

of  the  best 

ve  in  such 

.he  distance 

have  trot  it 

so  fond  of 

who  know 

n  scientific 
lat  the  sun 
it  I  said  to 

s  studiously 
treet,  1  mot 
ed  the  little 
ished  up  to 
lOUt  further 
r,  however, 
not  ofet  her 
ed  with  my 
hut  it  would 
V\n<X,  toward 
'tter  than  a 
her,  or  even 
»  my  hooks. 
I  cross  them 
mey  ;  for  I 
!  alile  to  fit 
ife. 

ipish  mood, 
and  turnino 
'd  by  some 
ivinp;  it.  I 
lught,  pora- 
lee-buekles. 
polished  ;  a 
gh  country, 
uess  of  his 
stied  up  as 
King  wood. 


EARLY  EXPERIENCES  OF  RALPH  RING  WOOD.     131 

"  I  was  startled,  for  I  suppose!  myself  perfectly  iucog.  ;  but 
I  answered  iu  tl  e  afflrrnative. 

"  '  Your  fauiily,  I  believe,  lives  in  Richmond?' 

"  My  gorge  began  to  rise.  '  Yes,  sir,'  replied  I,  sulkily,  '  my 
family  does  live  in  Ixiehniond.' 

'• '  And  what,  may  I  ask,  has  brought  you  into  this  part  of 
the  country? ' 

"'Zounds,  sir!'  cried  I,  starting  on  my  feet,  'what  busi- 
ness is  it  of  yours?     How  dare  you  to  question  me  in  this  man- 


,•>■ 


tier 

"Tiie  entrance  of  some  persons  prevented  a  reply;  but  I 
walked  up  and  down  the  l)ar-'()oni,  fuming  with  conscious  in- 
(k'poudenee  and  insulted  dignity,  while  the  pompous-looking 
personage,  who  had  thus  trespassed  upon  my  spleen,  retired 
without  proffering  another  word. 

"'I'lie  next  day,  while  seated  in  my  room,  some  one  tapped  at 
the  door,  and,  on  being  bid  to  enter,  the  stranger  in  the  pow- 
dered Iiead,  small-clothes,  and  shining  shoes  and  buckles,  walked 
iu  with  ceremonious  courtesy 

'*  My  lioyish  piide  was  again  in  arms;  but  he  subdued  me. 
He  was  formal,  but  kind  and  friendly.  He  knew  my  family 
and  understood  my  situation,  and  the  dogged  struggle  1  was 
making.  A  little  conversation,  when  my  jealous  pride  was 
once  put  to  rest,  drew  every  thing  from  me.  He  was  a  lawyer 
of  experience  and  of  extensive  practice,  and  offered  at  once  to 
take  me  with  him,  and  direct  my  studies.  The  otTer  was  too 
advantageous  and  gratifying  n(;t  to  be  immediately  accepted. 
From  ti'.at  time  I  began  to  look  up.  I  was  put  into  a  proper 
track,  and  was  enabled  to  study  to  a  proper  purpose.  1  made 
ac(iuaintance,  too,  with  some  of  the  young  men  of  the  place, 
who  were  in  the  same  pursuit,  and  was  encouraged  at  finding 
that  1  could  '  hold  my  own  '  in  argument  with  them.  We  insti- 
tuted a  debating  club,  in  which  I  soon  became  prominent  and 
popular.  jNIcm  of  talents,  engaged  in  other  pursuits,  joined  it, 
uid  tills  diversilie<l  our  subjects,  and  put  me  on  various  tracks 
of  iiKjuiry.  Ladies,  too,  attended  some  of  our  discussions,  and 
this  gave  them  a  i)olite  tone,  and  had  an  influence  on  the  man- 
ners of  the  debaters.  My  legal  patron  also  may  have  had  a 
favorable  effect  in  correcting  any  roughness  contracted  in  my 
hunter's  life.  He  was  calculated  to  bend  me  in  an  opposite 
direction,  for  he  was  of  the  old  school ;  quoted  Chesterfield  on 
all  occasions,  and  talked  of  Sir  Charles  Grandisou,  who  was 
his  beau  ideal.  It  was  Sir  Charles  Grandisou,  however,  Ken- 
tuckyized. 


132 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


"  I  had  always  boon  fond  of  female  society.  My  experience, 
however,  had  iiitiicrto  liecn  anioiij^  tlic  rou<i;li  daugliters  of  tli^ 
haekwoodsincn  ;  and  I  felt  an  awe  of  yonn<j;  hulies  in  'store 
clothes,'  and  delicately  hron^lit  np.  Two  or  three  of  the  mar- 
ried ladies  of  Hardslown,  who  had  heard  nie  at  the  del)atin<i;  eliih, 
determined  tliat  I  was  a  j^enius,  and  nndertook  to  hrinji;  me  out. 
I  believe  I  really  niproved  nnder  their  hands  ;  heeame  quiet  whore 
I  had  been  shy  o    sulky,  and  easy  where  I  had  been  impudent. 

"  I  called  to  take  tea  one  evenin>i'  with  one  of  these  hidios, 
when  to  my  surprise,  and  somewhat  to  my  confusion,  I  fouiul 
with  her  the  identical  l)lue-eyed  little  l)eauty  whom  1  had  so 
audaciously  kissed.  I  was  formally  introduced  to  her,  hut 
neither  of  us  lietrayed  any  si^iu  of  |)revious  ac(iuaintanec,  except 
by  blushiuiij  to  the  eyes.  While  tea  was  <i;etting  ready,  the  huly 
of  the  house  went  out  of  the  room  to  give  some  directions,  aud 
left  us  alone. 

"Heavens  and  earth,  what  a  situation  !  I  would  have  fjiven 
all  the  j)ittance  I  w:is  worth  to  have  been  in  the  deepest  dell  of 
tlie  forest.  1  felt  the  n''cessity  of  saying  something  in  excuse 
of  my  former  rudeness,  but  I  could  not  conjure  up  an  idea,  nor 
utter  a  word.  Every  moment  matters  were  growing  worse.  I 
felt  at  one  time  tem|)tcd  to  do  as  1  had  done  when  I  robbed  her 
of  the  kiss:  bolt  from  the  room,  and  take  to  ilight ;  but  1  was 
chaim'd  to  the  spot,  for  I  really  longed  to  gain  her  good-will. 

"  At  leuii'th  1  plucked  up  courage,  on  seeing  that  she  was 
equally  confused  with  myself,  and  walking  desperately  up  to 
her,  I  exclaimed  : 

"  '  1  have  been  trying  to  muster  up  something  to  say  to  you, 
but  I  cannot.  I  feel  that  I  am  in  a  horriule  scrape.  Do  have 
pity  on  me,  and  help  me  out  of  it.' 

"■A  smile  dimi)led  about  her  mouth,  and  played  among  the 
blushes  of  her  cheek.  She  looked  up  with  a  shy,  but  ;u('h 
glance  of  the  eye,  that  expressed  a  volume  of  comic  recollec- 
tion ;  we  both  broke  into  a  laugh,  and  from  that  moment  all 
went  on  well. 

''A  few  evenings  afterward  I  met  her  at  a  dance,  and  pros- 
ecuted 'o"  ac(piaintance.  I  soon  l)ecame  deeply  attached  to 
her;   ,      '  cotul  regularly  ;  and  before  I  was  nineteen  years 

of  age,  iiMi  engaged  myself  to  marry  her.  1  spoke  to  her 
mothei',  a  widow  lady,  to  ask  her  consent.  She  seemed  to 
demur  ;  upon  which,  with  my  customary  haste,  I  told  her  there 
would  be  no  use  in  opposing  the  match,  for  if  her  daughter 
chose  to  have  me,  i  would  take  lier,  iu  defiauee  of  her  family, 
and  the  whole  world. 


i    ' 


experience, 

iters  of  tlift 

s  in  'store 

of  tlio  in.ir- 

•atinji;  oliih, 

mg  nic  out. 

<iui('t  wliore 

iinpiidcnt. 

K'se  ladies, 

on.  I  foiiiul 

n   I    had  so 

o    licr,    l)iit 

nice,  t'xcopt 

ly,  the  lady 

eetioiis,  uud 

have  given 
ipest  ilell  of 
ig  in  excuse 
iin  idea,  nor 
!<f  worse.  I 
J  robbed  her 
t ;  l)ut  I  was 
j;ood-will, 
hat  she  was 
I'litely  up  to 

)  say  to  you, 
e.     Do  have 

1  among  the 

y,   but   arch 

nic  recolicc- 

moment  all 

•e,  and  pros- 

p.ttaclicd  to 

leteeii  years 

[)oke   to   her 

seemed   to 

Did  her  there 

ler  daughter 

her  family, 


EARLY  EXPEJilENCES   OF  RALPH  RINGWOOD.      133 

"  She  langhed,  and  told  mo  I  need  not  give  myself  any  un- 
easiness ;  there  would  bo  no  unreasonablo  opposition.  She 
knew  my  family  and  all  !il)<-)ut  me.  The  only  obstacle  was, 
that  I  had  no  means  of  supi)orting  a  wife,  and  she  had  nothing 
to  give  with  her  daughter. 

"  No  matter ;  at  that  moment  every  thing  was  bright  before 
nie.  I  was  in  one  of  my  sanguine  moods.  I  feared  nothing, 
doubted  nothing.  So  it  was  agreed  that  J  should  prosecute  my 
stu(li<'s,  obtain  a  license,  and  as  soon  as  I  should  be  fairly 
launched  in  business,  we  would  be  married. 

"I  now  prosecuted  my  studies  with  redoubled  ardor,  and 
was  up  to  my  oars  in  law,  when  I  received  a  letter  from  my 
fatiicr,  who  bad  heard  of  me  and  my  whereabouts.  He  ap- 
plauded the  course  I  had  taken,  but  advised  me  to  lay  a  foun- 
dation of  general  knowledge,  and  oft'ered  to  defray  my  expenses, 
if  I  would  go  to  college.  1  felt  the  w^nt  of  a  general  education, 
and  was  staggered  with  this  offer.  It  militated  somewhat 
against  the  8elf-dei)endent  course  I  had  so  proudly,  or  rather 
conceitedly,  inarkc<l  out  for  myself,  but  it  would  enable  me  to 
enter  more  advant.'igeously  upon  my  legal  career.  I  talked 
over  the  matter  with  the  lovely  girl  to  whom  I  was  engaged. 
She  sided  in  opinion  with  my  father,  and  talked  so  disinter- 
estedly, yet  tenderly,  that  if  possil)le,  I  loved  her  rao;^  than 
ever.  I  reluctantly,  therefore,  agreed  to  go  to  college  for  a 
couple  of  years,  though  it  must  necessarily  post})one  our  union. 

"  Scarcely  had  I  formed  this  resolution,  when  her  mother 
was  taken  ill,  and  died,  leaving  her  without  a  protector.  This 
again  altered  all  my  plans.  I  fdt  as  if  1  could  protect  her.  I 
gave  up  all  idea  of  collegiate  studies ;  persuaded  myself  that 
l)y  dint  of  industry  and  ai)plication  I  might  overcome  the 
deliciencies  of  education,  and  resolved  to  take  out  a  license  as 
soon  as  possible. 

"  That  very  autumn  I  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  within  a 
month  afterward  was  married.  We  were  a  young  couple,  she 
not  much  above  sixteen,  I  not  quite  twenty  ;  and  both  almost 
without  a  dollar  in  the  world.  The  establishment  whieh  we 
set  up  was  suited  to  our  circumstances :  a  log  house,  with  two 
small  rooms  ;  a  bed,  a  table,  a  half  dozen  chairs,  a  half  dozen 
knives  an<l  forks,  a  half  dozen  spoons  ;  every  thing  by  half 
dozens  ;  a  little  delft  ware  ;  every  thing  in  a  small  way  :  we  were 
so  poor,  but  then  so  happy  ! 

"  We  had  not  been  married  many  days,  when  court  was  held 
at  a  county  town,  about  twenty-live  miles  distant.  It  was 
necessary  for  me  to  go  there,  and  put  niyself   in   the  way  of 


i    i 


\U    Hi 


li 


134 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


11/     ! 


K. 


business  ;  but  how  was  I  to  go?  I  liad  cxpeiulcHl  all  my  means 
on  our  establishment ;  anil  tlien  it  was  hard  parting  with  my 
wife  so  soon  after  marriage.  However,  go  1  must.  Money 
must  be  made,  or  we  should  soon  have  the  wolf  at  the  door. 
J  accordingly  borrowed  a  horse,  and  l)orrowed  a  little  cash,  and 
rode  off  from  my  door,  leaving  my  wife  standing  at  it,  and 
waving  her  hand  after  me.  Her  hist  look,  so  sweet  and  beam- 
ing, went  to  my  heart.  I  felt  as  if  I  could  go  through  lire  aud 
water  for  her. 

"•  I  arrived  at  the  county  town  on  a  cool  October  evening. 
The  inn  was  crowded,  for  the  court  was  to  commence  on  tlie 
following  day.  1  knew  no  one,  and  wondered  how  I,  a  stranger, 
and  a  mere  youngster,  was  to  make  my  way  in  such  a  erowd, 
aud  to  get  business.  The  public  room  was  thronged  witli  the 
idlers  of  the  country,  who  gather  together  on  such  occasions. 
There  was  sonte  drinking  going  forward,  with  mucii  noise,  and 
a  little  altercation.  Just  as  I  entered  the  room  I  saw  a  rouiili 
bully  of  a  fellow,  who  was  partly  intoxicated,  strike  an  old  man. 
He  came  swag<,'M'ing  l)y  me  and  elbowed  me  as  he  passed. 
I  immediately  L  '  -ked  him  down,  and  kicked  him  into  the 
street.  I  needed  no  better  introductioii.  In  a  moment  I  had  u 
dozen  rough  shakes  of  the  hand,  and  invitations  to  drink,  aud 
found  myself  (|uite  a  personage  in  this  rough  asseujbly. 

"The  next  morning  the  court  opened.  I  took  my  seat 
among  the  law^'crs,  but  felt  as  a  mere  spectator,  not  having  a 
suit  in  progress  or  prospect,  nor  having  any  idea  where  business 
was  to  come  from.  In  the  course  of  the  morning  a  man  was 
put  at  the  bar,  charged  with  passing  counterfeit  money,  and  was 
asked  if  he  was  reatly  for  trial.  He  answered  in  the  negative. 
He  had  been  confined  in  a  place  where  there  were  no  lawyers, 
and  had  not  had  an  opportunity  of  consulting  any.  He  was 
told  to  choose  counsel  from  the  lawyers  i)rescnt,  and  to  be  ready 
for  trial  on  the  following  day.  He  looketl  round  the  court  and 
selected  me.  I  was  tinmdcr-struck.  I  could  not  tell  why  he 
should  make  such  a  choice.  I,  a  beardless  youngster;  unprac- 
tised at  the  bar ;  perfectly  unknown.  I  felt  dillldeut  yet  de- 
lighted, and  could  have  hugged  the  rascal. 

"  Before  leaving  the  court  he  gave  me  one  hundred  dollars  in 
a  bag  as  a  retaining  fee.  I  could  scarcely  believe  my  senses ; 
it  seemed  like  a  dream.  The  heaviness  of  the  fee  spoke  bt 
lightly  in  favor  of  his  innocence,  but  that  was  no  affair  of  mine. 
1  wus  to  be  advocate,  not  judge  nor  jury.  I  followed  him  to 
jail,  aud  learned  from  him  all  the  particulars  of  his  case  ;  from 
thtncf  1  went  to   the   clerk's   otlice  and  took  minutes  of  the 


EAHLY   EXPERIENCES   OF  RALPH  RING  WOOD.      135 


my  means 
with  my 
Money 
the  door, 
cash,  aud 
itt  it,  and 
and  heaiii- 
,di  lire  aud 

evi'iuna;. 
ICO  on  the 
A  atiaiigor, 
I  a  crowd, 
d  wiUi  the 
occasions, 
noise,  and 
iw  a  rou«,di 

I  old  man. 
le  passed, 
u  into  the 
ut  1  liad  a 
drink,  and 

y- 

my  seat 
t  having  a 
i"e  business 
a  man  was 
y,  and  was 

uegative. 

0  lawyers, 

He  was 

0  be  ready 

court  and 

II  why  he 
' ;  unprae- 
it  yet  de- 
dollars  iu 
ly  senses ; 
ipoke  bL 

I'  of  mine. 
L'd  him  to 
ise  ;  from 
is  of  the 


intlictmcnt.  I  then  examined  the  law  on  the  subject,  and  pre- 
pared my  brief  in  my  room.  All  this  oecui)ied  me  until  mid- 
night, wlien  I  went  to  Ited  and  tried  to  sleep.  It  was  all  in 
vain.  Never  in  my  life  was  I  more  wide-awake.  A  host  of 
thoughts  and  fancies  kept  rushing  through  my  nund  ;  the  shower 
of  gold  that  luid  so  unexpeetedly  fallen  into  my  lap  ;  the  uV'u  of 
my  poor  little  wife  at  home,  that  I  was  to  astonish  with  my 
good  fortune  !  Hut  then  the  awful  responsibility  I  had  under- 
taken !  —  to  speak  for  the  first  time  in  a  strange  court ;  the 
expectations  the  culprit  had  cviilently  formed  of  my  talents  ; 
all  these,  and  u  crowd  of  similar  notions,  kept  whirling  through 
my  mind.  I  tossed  about  all  inght,  fearing  the  morning  would 
find  me  exhausted  and  incompetent ;  iu  a  word,  the  day  dawned 
on  me,  a  miserable  fellow  ! 

"  I  got  up  feverish  and  nervous.  I  walked  out  before  break- 
fast, striving  to  collect  my  thoughts,  and  tranquillize  my  feel- 
ings. It  was  a  bright  morning ;  the  air  was  pure  and  frosty. 
I  bathed  my  forehead  and  my  hands  in  a  beautiful  runnmg 
streaju  ;  but  I  could  not  allay  the  fever  heat  that  raged  witi*in. 
I  returned  to  breakfast,  but  could  not  eat.  A  single  cuv  of 
coffee  foi'med  my  repast.  It  was  time  to  go  to  court,  ar**!  I 
went  there  with  a  throbbing  heart.  I  believe  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  thoughts  of  my  little  wife,  in  her  lonely  log  house,  I 
should  have  given  back  to  the  man  his  hundred  dollars,  and 
relincpnshed  the  cause.  1  took  my  seat,  looking,  I  am  con- 
vinced, more  like  a  culprit  than  the  rogue  I  was  to  defend. 

"  When  the  time  came  for  me  to  speak,  my  heart  died  within 
me.  I  rose  embarrassed  and  dismayed,  and  stammered  in 
opening  my  cause.  I  went  on  from  bad  to  worse,  and  felt  as 
if  I  was  going  down  hill.  Just  then  the  public  prosecutor,  a 
man  of  talents,  but  somewhat  rough  in  his  practice,  made  a 
sarcastic  remark  on  something  I  had  said.  It  was  like  an  dec- 
trie  spark,  and  ran  tingling  through  every  vein  in  my  body. 
In  an  instant  my  diffidence  was  gone.  My  whole  spirit  was  in 
arms.  I  answered  with  promptness  and  bitterness,  for  I  felt 
the  cruelty  of  such  an  attack  upon  a  novice  in  my  situation. 
The  public  prosecutor  made  a  kind  of  apology ;  this,  from  a 
man  of  his  redoubted  powers,  was  a  vast  concession.  I  re- 
newed my  argument  with  a  fearless  glow ;  carried  the  case 
through  triumphantly,  and  the  man  was  acquitted. 

"This  was  the  making  of  me.  Everybody  was  curious  to 
know  who  this  new  lawyer  was,  that  had  thus  suddenly  risen 
among  them,  and  bearded  the  attorney-general  at  the  very 
outset.    The  story  of  my  d6but  at  the  inn  on  the  preceding  even- 


136 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


til  i 


ing,  when  I  had  knocked  down  a  bully,  and  kicked  him  out  of 
doors  for  striking  an  old  man,  was  circulated  with  favoraljle 
exaggerations.  Even  my  very  beardless  chin  and  juvenilo 
countenance  were  in  my  favor,  for  >ple  gave  me  far  more 
credit  than  I  really  deserved.  The  ciiancc  business  which  oc- 
curs in  our  country  courts  came  thronging  upon  me.  I  was 
repeatedly  employed  in  other  causes  ;  and  by  Saturday  niglit, 
when  the  court  closed,  and  I  had  paid  my  bill  at  the  inn,  I  found 
myself  vvitii  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  silver,  three  hundred 
dollars  in  notes,  and  a  horse  that  1  afterwards  sold  for  two  hun- 
dred dollars  more. 

"  Never  did  miser  gloat  on  his  money  with  more  delight.  I 
locked  the  door  of  my  room  ;  piled  tlie  money  in  a  heap  upon  the 
table ;  walked  round  it ;  sat  with  my  elbows  on  the  table,  and 
my  chin  upon  my  hands,  and  gazed  upon  it.  Was  I  thinking  of 
the  money?  No!  1  was  thinking  of  my  little  wife  at  home. 
Another  sleepless  night  ensued  ;  but  what  a  night  of  golden  fan- 
cies, and  splendid  air-castles  !  As  soon  as  morning  dawned,  I 
was  up,  mounted  the  borrowed  horse  with  which  I  had  come  to 
court,  and  led  the  other  which  I  had  received  as  a  fee.  All  the 
way  I  was  delighting  myself  with  the  thoughts  of  the  surprise  I 
had  in  store  for  ray  little  wife,  for  both  of  us  had  expected 
nothing  but  that  I  should  spend  all  the  money  1  had  boriowed, 
and  should  return  in  debt. 

"  Our  meeting  was  joyous,  as  you  may  suppose  :  but  I  played 
the  part  of  the  Indian  hunter,  who,  when  he  returns  from  tiie 
chase,  never  for  a  time  speaks  of  his  success.  She  had  pre- 
pared a  snug  little  rustic  meal  for  me,  and  while  it  was  getiiiig 
ready  I  seated  myself  at  an  old-fashioned  desk  in  one  corner, 
and  began  to  conyA  over  my  money,  and  put  it  away.  She  came 
to  me  before  I  had  finished,  and  asked  who  1  had  collecteil  the 
money  for. 

"  'For  myself,  to  be  sure,'  replied  I,  with  affected  coolness; 
'I  made  it  at  court.' 

"  She  looked  me  for  a  moment  in  the  face,  incredulously.  I 
tried  to  keep  my  countenance,  and  to  play  Indian,  but  it  would 
not  do.  My  muscles  began  to  twitch  ;  my  feelings  all  at  once 
gave  way.  1  caught  her  in  my  arms;  laughed,  crii'd,  and  danced 
about  the  room,  like  a  crazy  man.  From  that  time  forward,  we 
never  wanted  for  money. 

"  I  had  not  been  long  in  successful  practice,  when  I  was  sur- 
prised one  day  by  a  visit  from  my  woodland  patron,  old  Miller. 
The  tidings  of  my  prosperity  had  reached  him  in  the  wilderness, 
and  he  had  walked  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  on  fool  to  see 


THE  SEMINOLES. 


137 


inn  out  of 

fuvoriible 

juvenile 

far   more 

-vhieli  00- 

■e.     I  was 

ay  nio;lit, 

n,  I  found 

hundred 

two  huu- 

c'light.     I 
upon  the 
able,  and 
linkinii;  of 
at  home. 
Dlden  fun- 
dawned,  I 
d  come  to 
.     All  the 
surprise  I 
expected 
borrowed, 

1 1  played 
5  from  the 
i  bad  pi'e- 
as  getting 
10  corner, 
She  came 
lected  the 

coolness ; 

lously.  J 
t  it  would 
.11  at  once 
[id  danced 
rward,  we 

I  was  snr- 
ild  Miller, 
ilderncss, 
)ot  to  see 


ine.  By  that  time  I  had  Improved  my  domestic  establishment, 
and  had  all  things  comfortable  al)out  me.  He  looked  around 
him  with  a  wondering  eye,  :it  wliat  he  considered  luxuries  and 
superfluities ;  but  supposed  they  were  all  right  in  my  altered 
circumstances.  He  said  he  did  not  know,  upon  the  whole,  but 
tliat  I  had  acted  for  the  best.  It  is  true,  if  game  had  continued 
plenty,  it  would  have  been  a  folly  for  mo  to  quit  a  hunter's  life; 
but  hunting  was  pretty  nigh  done  up  in  Kentucky.  The  buffalo 
had  gone  to  Missouri ;  the  elk  were  nearly  gone  also  ;  deer,  too, 
were  growing  scarce  ;  they  might  last  out  his  time,  as  he  was 
growmg  old,  but  they  were  not  worth  setting  ui)  life  upon.  He 
bad  once  lived  on  the  borders  of  Virginia.  Game  grew  scarce 
there ;  he  followed  it  up  across  Kentucky,  and  now  it  was 
again  giving  him  the  slip ;  but  he  w\as  too  old  to  follow  it 
farther. 

"He  remained  with  us  throe  days.  INIy  wife  did  every  thing 
in  her  power  to  make  hir.-  comfortaiile  ;  liut  at  the  end  of  that 
time  he  said  he  must  bo  off  again  to  the  woods,  lie  was  tired 
of  the  village,  and  of  having  so  many  people  about  him.  Ho 
accordingly  returned  to  the  wilderness  and  to  liuniing  life. 
But  1  fear  he  did  not  make  a  good  end  of  it ;  for  I  understand 
that  a  few  years  before  his  death  he  married  .Sukey  Thomas, 
who  lived  at  the  White  Oak  Run." 


THE   SEMINOLES. 


From  the  time  of  the  chimerical  cruisings  of  Old  Ponce  dft 
Leon  in  search  of  the  Fountain  of  Youth,  the  avaricious  expe. 
dition  of  Pamphilo  dc  Narvaoz  in  quest  of  gold,  and  the  chival- 
rous enterprise  of  Hernando  do  Soto,  to  iliscover  and  con(|uer 
R  second  IMoxico,  the  natives  of  Florida  have  been  continually 
subjected  to  the  invasions  and  encroachments  of  white  men. 
They  have  resisted  them  pcrseveringly  but  fruitlessly,  and  are 
now  i)attling  amid  swamps  and  morasses  for  the  last  foothold 
of  their  native  soil,  with  all  the  ferocity  of  despair.  Can  we 
wonder  at  the  bitterness  of  a  hostility  that  has  been  handed 
down  from  father  to  son,  for  upward  of  throe  centuries,  and 
exasperated  by  the  wrongs  and  niiscrirs  of  each  succeeding 
generation  !  The  very  name  of  the  savages  with  whom  we  are 
lighting  betokens  their  fallen  and  homeless  condition.  Formed 
of  the  wrecks  of  once  powerful  tribes,  and  driven  from  their 


I 


l«  ■» 


i  'h 


138 


THE  CRAYON   PAPERS. 


ilf 


I.  m 


!»  ■  J 


1     ■    ^ 


ancient  seats  of  prosperity  and  dominion,  they  are  known  by 
the  name  of  the  Seminoles,  or  "  Wanderers." 

Bartram,  who  travelled  through  P'lorida  in  the  latter  part  of 
the  last  century,  speaks  of  passing  through  a  great  extont  of 
ancient  Indian  fields,  now  silent  and  deserted,  overgrown  with 
forests,  orange  groves,  and  rank  vegetation,  the  site  of  the 
ancient  Alachua,  the  capital  of  a  famous  and  powerful  tribe, 
who  in  days  of  old  could  assemble  thousands  at  bull-play  ancl 
other  athletic  exercises  "  over  these  then  happy  fields  ami 
green  plains."  "Almost  every  step  we  tuke,"  adds  he,  "over 
these  fertile  heights  discovers  the  remains  and  traces  of 
ancient  human  habitations  and  cultivation." 

About  the  year  17G3,  when  Florida  was  ceded  by  the  Span- 
iards to  the  English,  we  are  told  that  the  Indians  generally 
retired  from  the  towns  and  the  neighborhood  of  the  whites, 
and  burying  themselves  in  the  deep  forests,  intricate  swamps 
and  hommocks,  and  vast  savannas  of  the  interior,  devoted 
themselves  to  a  pastoral  life,  and  the  rearing  of  horses  and 
cattle.  These  are  the  people  that  received  the  name  of  *he 
Seminoles,  or  Wanderers,  which  they  still  retain. 

Bartram  gives  a  pleasing  picture  of  them  at  the  time  ho  vis- 
ited them  in  their  wilderness  ;  where  their  distance  from  tlie 
abodes  of  the  white  man  gave  them  a  transient  quiet  and 
security.  "This  handful  of  people,"  says  he,  "  possesses  a 
vast  territory,  all  East  and  the  greatest  part  of  NA'est  Florida, 
which  being  naturally  cut  and  divided  into  thousands  of  i.:'Hs, 
knolls,  and  eminences,  by  the  innumerable  rivers,  lakes,  swamps, 
vast  savannas,  and  ponds,  form  so  many  secure  retreats  and 
temporary  dwelling  places  that  effectually  guard  them  from  any 
sudden  invasions  or  atiucks  from  their  enemies  ;  and  being  such 
a  swampy,  hommocky  country,  furnishes  such  a  plenty  and 
variety  of  supplies  for  the  nourishment  of  varieties  of  animals, 
that  1  can  venture  to  assert  that  no  part  of  the  globe  so 
abounds  with  wild  game,  or  creatures  fit  for  the  food  of  man. 

"Thus  they  enjoy  a  superabundance  of  the  necessaries  and 
conveniences  of  life,  with  th(>  security  of  person  and  property, 
the  two  great  concerns  of  mankind.  The  hides  of  deer,  bears, 
tigers,  and  wolves,  together  with  honey,  wax,  and  other  pro- 
ductions of  the  country,  pundiase  their  clothing,  ecpiipage,  and 
domestic  utensils  from  tlie  whites.  They  seem  to  be  free  from 
want  or  desires.  No  cruel  enemy  to  dread  ;  nothing  to  give 
them  disquietude,  but  the  (jradnal  encroachments  of  the  while 
people.  Thus  contented  and  undisturbed,  they  appear  as  l)litlie 
and  free  as  the  birds  of  the  air,  and  like  them  as  volatile  aud 


Uu 


THE  SE^fINOLES. 


139 


ire  known  by 

latter  part  of 
cat  extont  of 
ei-grown  with 
site  of  tlie 
Dwcrful  tribe, 
liiill-play  and 
>y  fields  anrl 
Ids  ho,  "over 
ud    traces  of 

>y  the  Span- 
ans  generally 
f  the  whites, 
cate  swamps 
rior,  devoted 
'  horses  and 
name  of  ♦he 

e  time  he  vis- 
loe  from  th« 
lit  quiet  and 
"  possesses  a 
i^'est  Florida, 
nds  of  i:;"Hs, 
-kes,  swamps, 

retreats  ancl 
lem  from  any 
id  being  such 
I  plenty  and 
1  of  animals, 
he  globe  so 
3(1  of  man. 
.'essaries  and 
nd  property, 

deer,  l)ears, 
d  other  pro- 
inipage,  and 
l)e  free  from 
ling  to  give 
of  the  white 
ear  as  blilbe 
volatile  and 


active,  tuneful  and  vociferous.  The  visage,  action,  and  deport- 
ment of  the  Seininoles  form  the  most  striking  picture  of  hap- 
piness in  this  life ;  joy,  contciitment,  love,  and  friendship, 
without  guile  or  affectation,  seem  inherent  in  thera,  or  predora 
inant  in  their  vital  principle,  for  it  leaves  them  with  but  the  last 
breath  of  life.  .  .  .  They  are  fond  of  games  and  gambling, 
and  amuse  themselves  like  children,  in  relating  extravagant 
stories,  to  cause  surprise  and  mirth."  ^ 

The  same  writer  gives  an  engaging  picture  of  his  treatment 
by  these  savages  : 

"  Soon  after  entering  the  forests,  we  were  met  in  the  path  by 
a  small  company  of  Indians,  smiling  and  beckoning  to  us  long 
])C'fore  we  joined  them.  This  was  a  family  of  Talahasochte, 
who  had  been  out  on  a  hunt  and  were  returning  home  loaded 
with  barbecued  meat,  hides,  and  honey.  Their  company  con- 
sisted of  the  man,  his  wife  and  children,  well  mounted  on  fine 
horses,  with  a  number  of  pack-horses.  The  man  offered  us  a 
fawn  skin  of  honey,  which  I  accepted,  and  at  parting  presented 
him  with  some  fish-hooks,  sewing-needles,  etc. 

''  On  our  return  to  camp  in  the  evening,  we  were  saluted  by  a 
party  of  young  Indian  warriors,  who  had  pitched  their  tents  on 
a  <i;reen  eminence  near  the  lake,  at  a  small  distance  from  our 
camp,  under  a  little  grove  of  oaks  and  palms.  This  company 
consisted  of  seven  young  Seminoles,  under  the  conduct  of  a 
young  prince  or  chief  of  Talahasochte,  a  town  southward  in  the 
isthmus.  They  were  all  dressed  and  painted  with  s'  igular 
eU'<rance,  and  richly  ornamented  with  silver  plates,  chains,  etc., 
after  the  Seminole  mode,  with  waving  plumes  of  feathers  on 
their  crests.  On  our  coming  up  to  them,  they  arose  and  shook 
hands ;  we  alighted  and  sat  awhile  with  them  by  their  cheerful 
tire. 

"The  young  prince  informed  our  chief  that  he  was  in  pursuit 
of  a  young  fellow  who  had  fled  from  the  town,  carrying  off  with 
him  one  of  his  favorite  young  wives.  He  said,  mernly,  he 
would  have  the  ears  of  both  of  them  before  he  returned.  He 
was  rather  above  the  middle  stature,  and  the  most  perfect 
human  figure  I  ever  saw  ;  of  an  amiable,  engaging  countenance, 
air,  and  deportment ;  free  and  familiar  in  conversation,  yet 
retaining  a  becoming  gracefulness  and  dignity.  We  arose,  took 
leave  c>f  them,  and  crossed  a  little  vale,  covered  with  a  charm- 
ing green  turf,  already  illuminated  by  the  soft  light  of  the  full 
moon. 

>  BartraurM  Trav(.*i«  ia  North  America. 


it   '    ' 


140 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


flj 


hi  i 


•'  Soon  after  joining  our  companions  at  camp,  our  neighbors, 
the  prince  and  his  associates,  paid  us  a  visit.  We  treated  them 
with  the  best  fare  we  had,  having  till  this  time  preserved  our 
spirituous  liquors.  They  loft  us  with  perfect  cordiality  and 
cheerfulness,  wishing  us  a  good  repose,  and  retired  to  their  own 
camp.  Having  a  band  of  music  with  them,  consisting  of  a 
drum,  flutes,  arid  a  rattle-gourd,  they  entertained  us  during  the 
night  with  their  music,  vocal  and  instrumental. 

There  is  a  languishing  softness  and  melancholy  air  in  tlip 
Indian  convivial  songs,  especially  of  the  amorous  class,  incslsti- 
bly  moving  attention,  and  excjuisitely  pleasing,  especially  in  tlieir 
solitary  recesses,  when  all  nature  is  silent." 

Travellers  who  have  been  among  them,  in  more  recent  times, 
before  they  had  cml)arked  in  their  present  desperate  struggle, 
represent  them  in  nnich  the  same  light ;  as  leading  a  pleasant, 
indolent  life,  in  a  climate  that  required  little  shelter  or  clothing, 
and  where  the  spontaneous  fruits  of  the  tarth  furnished  subsist- 
ence without  toil.  A  cleanly  race,  delighting  in  bathing,  pass- 
ing much  of  th'^ir  time  under  the  shade  of  their  trees,  with  heaps 
of  oranges  and  other  fine  fruits  for  their  refreshment ;  talking, 
laughing,  dancing  and  sleeping.  Every  chief  had  a  fan  hanging 
to  his  side,  made  of  feathers  of  the  wild  turkey,  the  beautiful 
pink-colored  crane  or  the  scarlet  flamingo.  With  this  he  would 
sit  and  fan  himself  with  great  statelincis,  while  the  young  people 
danced  before  him.  The  women  joined  in  the  dances  with  the 
men,  excepting  the  war-dances.  They  wore  strings  of  tortoise- 
shells  and  pebbles  round  their  legs,  which  rattled  in  cadence  to 
the  music.  They  were  treated  with  more  atteutJou  among  the 
Seniinoles  than  among  most  Indian  tribes. 


1      rl 


i      ( 


ORIGIN  OF  TUE  WHITE,  THE  RED,  AND  THE  BLACK  MEN. 

A    SEMINOLE    TUADITION. 

When  the  Florldas  were  erected  into  a  territory  of  the  United 
States,  one  of  the  earliest  cares  of  the  (lovernor,  William  V. 
Duval,  was  directed  to  the  instruction  and  civilization  of  the 
natives.  For  this  purpose  he  called  a  meeting  of  the  chiefs,  in 
which  he  informed  them  of  the  wish  of  their  Great  Father  at 
AVashington  that  they  should  have  schools  and  teachers  among 
them,  and  that  their  children  should  be  instructed  like  the  chil- 
dren of  white  men.  Tiie  chiefs  listened  with  their  customary 
silence  and  decovum  to  a  long  speech,  setting  forth  the  advan- 
tages thi^i.  would  accrue  to  them  from  this  measure,  and  when  he 
liad  cone  hided,  begged  the  interval  of  a  day  to  deliberate  on  it. 


THE  SEMINOLES. 


141 


r  neighbors, 
Teated  them 
eserved  our 
rdiality  ant) 
to  their  own 
sistliig  of  u 
IS  during  the 

air  in  tho 
ass,  irresisti- 
sially  in  ti(eir 

oeont  times, 
ate  stnijrgle, 
g  a  pU'asant, 
'  or  clothing, 
shed  siihsist- 
athing,  pass- 
s,  with  iieaps 
3nt ;  talking, 

fan  hanging 
the  beautiful 
,his  he  would 
young  people 
nees  with  the 
s  of  tortoise- 
in  cadence  to 
u  among  the 


LACK  MEN. 

of  the  United 
,  William  1'. 
lation  of  the 
,he  chiefs,  in 
'at  Father  at 
Lchers  among 
like  the  chil- 
ir  customary 
:h  the  advan- 
and  when  he 
berate  on  it. 


On  the  following  day  a  solemn  convocation  was  held,  at  which 
one  of  the  chiefs  addressed  the  governor  in  the  name  of  all  the 
rest.  "My  brother,"  said  he,  ''we  have  l)een  thinking  over 
the  pi'  position  of  our  Cireat  Father  at  Washington,  to  send 
teachers  and  set  up  schools  among  us.  We  are  very  thankful 
for  the  interest  he  takes  in  our  welfare  ;  iiut  after  much  deliber- 
ation, have  concluded  to  decline  his  offer.  What  will  do  very 
well  for  white  men,  will  not  do  for  red  men.  I  know  you  white 
men  say  we  all  come  from  the  same  father  and  mother,  but  you 
are  mistaken.  We  have  a  tradition  handed  down  from  our  fore- 
fathers, and  we  believe  it,  that  the  Great  Spirit  when  he  under- 
took to  make  men,  made  the  black  man  ;  it  was  his  first  at- 
tempt, and  pretty  well  for  a  beginning ;  but  he  soon  saw  he  had 
bungled  ;  so  he  determined  to  try  his  hand  again.  He  did  so, 
and  made  the  I'cd  man.  He  liked  him  much  betier  than  the 
black  man,  but  still  he  was  not  ex.^ctly  what  he  wanted.  So  he 
tried  once  more,  and  made  the  white  man  ;  and  then  he  was 
satisfied.  You  see,  therefore,  that  you  were  made  last,  and  that 
is  the  reason  I  call  you  my  youngest  bi-other. 

"When  the  Great  Spirit  luul  made  the  three  men,  he  called 
them  together  and  showed  them  three  boxes.  The  first  was 
filled  witli  books,  and  maps,  and  papers  ;  the  second  with  bows 
and  arrows,  knives  and  tomahawks  :  the  third  with  spades,  axes, 
hoes,  and  hammers.  '•These,  my  sous,'  said  he,  'are  the  means 
by  which  you  are  to  live  :  choose  among  them  according  to  your 
fancy.' 

"  The  wi)ite  man,  being  the  favorite,  had  the  first  choice. 
He  passed  by  the  box  of  woi'king-tools  without  notice  ;  but  when 
he  came  to  the  weapons  for  war  and  hunting,  he  stopped  and 
look(!d  hard  at  them.  The  red  man  trembled,  for  he  had  set 
bis  heart  upon  that  box.  The  white  man,  however,  after  leok- 
ing  upon  it  for  a  moment,  passed  on,  and  chose  the  box  of  books 
and  papers.  The  red  man's  turn  came  next ;  and  you  may  be 
sure  he  seized  with  joy  upon  the  bows  and  arrows  and  toma- 
hawks. As  to  the  black  man,  he  had  no  choice  left  but  to  put 
up  with  the  box  of  tools. 

"  From  this  it  is  clear  that  the  Great  Spirit  intended  the  white 
man  should  learn  to  read  and  write  ;  to  understand  all  about 
the  moon  and  stars  ;  and  to  make  every  tlung,  even  rum  srnd 
whiskey.  That  the  red  man  should  lie  a  first-rate  hunter,  and 
a  mighty  warrior,  but  he  was  not  to  learn  any  thing  from  books, 
!is  the  ( Jicjit  Spirit  had  not  given  him  any  :  nor  was  he  to  make 
rum  and  whiskey,  lest  he  should  kill  himself  with  drinking.  As 
to  the  black  man,  as  he  had  nothing  but  working-tools,  it  wa> 


H 


•  ! 


•■Il . -^ 


142 


THE  CRAYON  PAPEBS. 


clear  lie  was  to  work  for  the  white  and  red  man,  which  he  has 
continued  to  do. 

*'  We  must  go  according  to  the  wishes  of  the  Great  Spirit,  or 
we  shall  get  into  trouble.  To  know  how  to  read  and  write  is 
very  good  for  white  men,  but  very  bad  for  red  men.  It  niakos 
white  men  better,  but  red  men  worse.  Some  of  the  Creeks  and 
Cherokees  learned  to  read  and  write,  and  they  are  the  greatest 
rascals  among  all  the  Indians.  They  went  on  to  Washington, 
and  said  they  were  going  to  see  their  Great  Father,  to  talk 
about  the  good  of  the  nation.  And  when  they  got  there,  they 
all  wrote  upon  a  little  piece  of  paper,  without  the  nation  at  home 
knowing  any  thing  about  it.  And  the  first  thing  the  nation  at 
home  knew  of  the  matter,  they  were  called  together  by  the 
Indian  agent,  w  'lo  showed  them  a  little  piece  of  paper,  which 
he  told  them  was  a  treaty,  which  their  brethren  had  made  in 
their  name,  with  their  Great  Father  at  Washington.  And  as 
they  knew  not  what  a  treaty  was,  he  held  up  the  little  piece  of 
paper,  and  they  looked  under  it,  and  lo  !  it  covered  a  great  ex- 
tent of  country,  and  they  found  that  their  brethren,  by  knowing 
how  to  read  and  write,  had  sold  their  houses  and  their  lands  an(l 
the  graves  of  their  fatl.ers  ;  and  that  the  white  man.  by  knowing 
how  to  read  and  write,  had  gaineti  them.  Tell  our  Great  Father 
at  Washington,  therefore,  that  we  are  very  sorry  we  cannot 
receive  teachers  among  us  ;  for  reading  and  writing,  though  very 
good  for  white  men,  is  very  bad  for  Indians." 


THE  CONSPIRACY  OF   NEAMATHLA. 


AN    AUTHENTIC    SKETCH. 


1  ■     t 


iii'i 


In  the  autumn  of  1823,  Governor  Duval,  and  other  commis- 
sioners on  the  part  of  the  United  States,  concluded  a  treaty  with 
tlio  chiefs  and  warriors  of  the  Florida  Indians,  by  which  the 
latter,  for  certain  considerations,  ceded  all  claims  to  the  whole 
teri'itory,  excepting  a  district  in  the  eastern  part,  to  which  they 
were  to  remove,  and  within  which  they  were  to  reside  for  twenty 
years.  Several  of  the  chiefs  signed  the  treaty  with  great  reluc- 
tance ;  but  none  opposed  it  more  strongly  than  Neamathla,  prin- 
ci[)al  oliief  of  the  Mickasookies,  a  fierce  and  warlike  people, 
many  of  tiicm  Creeks  by  origin,  who  lived  about  the  Mickasookie 
lake.     Neamathla  had  always  been  active  in  those  depredatioua 


THE  CONSPIRACY  OF  NEAMATHLA. 


143 


-h  he  has 

Spirit,  or 
d  write  is 
It  makes 
reeks  and 
2  greatest 
shington, 
r,  to  talk 
lere,  they 
a  at  home 
nation  at 
;r  by  the 
er,  which 
made  in 
And  as 
piece  of 
great  ex- 
knowing 
ands  and 
'  knowing 
at  P'ather 
e  cannot 
:)Ugh  very 


■  commia- 
eaty  with 
irhlch  the 
.he  whole 
hlch  they 
)r  twenty 
'at  reluc- 
lila,  prin- 
i  people, 
kasookie 
redatiuu:^ 


on  the  frontiers  of  Georgia,  which  had  brought  vengeance  and 
ruin  on  the  Semlnoles.  He  was  a  remarkable  man  ;  upward  ot 
mxty  years  of  age,  about  six  feet  high,  with  a  fine  eye,  and  a 
strongly  marked  countenance,  over  which  he  possessed  great 
command.  His  hatred  of  the  white  men  appeared  to  be  mixed 
with  contempt :  on  the  common  people  he  looked  down  wltl 
infinite  scorn.  He  seemed  unwilling  to  acknowledge  any  superi 
ority  of  rank  or  dignity  in  Governor  Duval,  claiming  to  associate 
with  him  on  terms  of  equality,  as  two  great  chieftains.  Though 
he  had  l)een  prevailed  upon  to  sign  the  treaty,  his  heart  revolted 
at  it.  In  one  of  his  frank  conversations  with  Governor  Duval, 
he  observed  :  "  This  country  belongs  to  the  red  man  ;  and  if  I 
had  the  number  of  warriors  at  my  command  that  this  nation 
once  had,  I  would  not  leave  a  white  man  on  my  lands.  I  would 
exterminate  the  whole.  I  can  say  this  to  you,  for  you  can 
understand  me  ;  you  are  a  man  ;  but  I  would  not  say  it  to  your 
people.  They'd  cry  out  I  was  a  savage,  and  would  take  my 
life.  They  cannot  appreciate  the  feelings  of  a  man  that  loves 
his  country." 

As  Florida  had  but  recently  been  erected  into  a  territory, 
every  thing  as  yet  was  in  rude  and  simple  style.  The  governoi, 
to  make  himself  acquainted  with  the  Indians,  and  to  be  near  at 
hand  to  keep  an  eye  upon  them,  fixed  his  residence  at  Tallahas- 
see, near  the  Fowel  towns,  inhabited  by  the  Mickasookies.  His 
government  palace  for  a  time  was  a  mere  log  house,  and  he 
lived  on  hunters'  fare.  The  village  of  Neamathla  was  but  about 
throe  miles  off,  and  thither  the  governor  occasionally  rode,  to 
visit  the  old  chieftain.  In  one  of  these  visits  he  found  Nea- 
mathla '  'at.'d  in  his  wigwam,  in  the  centre  of  the  village,  sur- 
rounded by  his  warriors.  The  governor  had  brought  him  some 
liquor  as  a  present,  but  it  mounted  quickly  into  his  brain,  and 
rendered  him  quite  boastful  and  belligerent.  The  theme  ever 
uitperniost  in  his  mind,  was  the  treaty  with  the  whites.  "It 
was  true,"  he  said,  "  the  red  men  had  made  such  a  treaty,  but 
llic  white  men  had  not  acted  up  to  it.  The  red  men  had  re- 
ceived none  of  the  money  and  the  cattle  that  had  been  promised 
tlieni :  the  treaty,  therefore,  was  at  an  end,  aud  they  did  not 
mean  to  be  bound  by  it." 

CJovernor  Duval  calmly  representad  to  bim  that  the  time 
tippointed  in  the  treaty  for  the  payment  and  delivery  of  the 
money  and  the  cattle  had  not  yet  arrived.  This  the  old  chief- 
tain knew  full  well,  but  he  chose,  for  the  moment,  to  pretend 
iguoranci".  He  kepi  on  drinking  and  talking,  his  voice  grow- 
ing louder  aud  louder,  until  it  resounded  all  over  the  village 


L*       ' 


r-  R 


144 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


]Mt-« 


. 


He  held  in  his  hand  a  long  knife,  with  which  he  had  been  rasp- 
ing tobacco  ;  this  he  kept  flourishing  backward  and  forward,  as 
he  talked,  by  way  of  giving  effect  to  his  words,  brandishint;  it 
at  times  within  an  inch  of  the  governor's  throat.  He  conclutjed 
his  tirade  by  repeating,  that  the  country  belonged  to  the  red 
men,  and  that  sooner  than  give  it  up.  Ins  bones  and  the  bones 
of  his  people  should  bleach  upon  its  soil. 

Duval  saw  that  the  object  of  all  this  bluster  was  to  see 
whether  he  could  be  intimidated.  He  kept  his  eye,  therefore, 
fixed  steadily  on  the  chief,  and  the  moment  he  concluded  with 
his  menace,  seized  him  by  the  bosom  of  his  hunting-shirt,  and 
clinching  his  other  fist : 

"I've  heard  what  you  have  said,"  replied  he.  "  You  have 
made  a  treaty,  yet  you  say  your  bones  shall  l)leach  before  you 
comply  with  it.  As  sure  as  there  is  a  sun  in  heaven,  your  hones 
shall  bleach,  if  you  do  not  fulfil  every  article  of  that  treaty! 
I'll  let  you  know  that  I  am  Jirst  here,  and  will  see  that  you  do 
your  duty !  " 

Upon  this,  the  old  chieftain  threw  himself  back,  burst  into  a 
fit  of  laughing,  and  declared  that  all  he  had  said  was  in  joiie. 
The  governor  suspected,  however,  that  there  was  a  grave  mean- 
ing at  the  bottom  of  this  jocularity. 

For  two  months,  every  thing  went  on  smoothly :  the  Indians 
repaired  daily  to  the  log-cabin  palace  of  the  governor,  at  Talla- 
hassee, and  ai)peared  perfectly  contented.  All  at  once  they 
ceased  their  visits,  and  for  three  or  four  days  not  one  was  to 
be  seen.  Governor  Duval  began  to  apprehend  that  some  mis- 
chief was  brewing.  On  the  evening  of  the  fourth  day  a  chief 
named  Yellow-Hair,  a  resolute,  intelligent  fellow,  who  had 
always  evinced  an  attachment  for  the  governor,  entered  his 
cabin  about  twelve  o'clock  at  night,  and  informed  him  tiiat 
betwt^en  four  and  five  hundred  warriors,  painted  and  decorated, 
were  assembled  to  hold  a  secret  war-talk  at  Neamathla's  town. 
He  had  slipped  off  to  give  intelligence,  at  the  risk  of  his  life, 
and  hastened  back  lest  his  absence  should  be  discovered. 

Governor  Duval  passed  an  anxious  night  after  this  inteUi- 
gence.  He  knew  the  talent  and  the  daring  character  of  Nea- 
mathla ;  he  recollected  the  threats  he  had  thrown  out ;  he  re- 
flected that  about  eighty  white  families  were  scattered  widely 
apart,  over  a  great  extent  of  country,  and  might  be  swept  away 
at  once,  should  the  Indians,  as  he  feared,  determine  to  clear  the 
country.  That  he  did  not  exaggerate  the  dangers  of  the  case, 
has  been  proved  by  the  horrid  scenes  of  Indian  warfare  that 
have  since  desolated  that  devoted  region.     After  a  night  of 


d  been  rasp, 
forward,  as 
nndishing  it 
le  concluded 
d  to  the  red 
id  the  hones 

was  to  see 

e,  therefore, 

>neluded  with 

ug-shirt,  and 

"  You  liave 

h  before  you 

ti.,  your  hones 

that  treaty  I 

that  you  do 

,  burst  into  a 
was  in  joke. 
I  grave  mean- 

the  Indians 
nor,  at  Talla- 
at  once  they 
)t  one  was  to 
at  some  mis- 
li  day  a  chief 
)w,  who  had 
,  entered  liis 
(led  him  that 
id  decorated, 
athla's  town, 
k  of  his  Hfe, 
vered. 

r  tliis  inteUi- 
icter  of  Nea- 
1  out ;  he  re- 
ttered  widely 
e  swept  away 
e  to  clear  the 
;  of  the  case, 
warfare  tliut 
r  a  nitrht  of 


THE  CONSPIRACY  OF  NEAMATHLA. 


145 


sleepless  cogitation,  Duval  determined  on  a  measure  suited  to 
liis  prompt  and  resolute  character.  Knowing  the  admiration  of 
the  savages  for  personal  courage,  he  determined,  by  a  sudden 
surprise,  to  endeavor  to  overawe  and  check  them.  It  was  haz- 
arding much  ;  but  where  so  many  lives  were  in  jeopardy,  he  feU 
bound  to  incur  the  hazard. 

Accordingly,  on  the  next  morning,  he  set  off  on  hcrseback, 
attended  merely  by  a  white  man,  who  had  been  rearc  :1  among 
the  Seminoles,  and  understood  their  language  and  mai.ners,  and 
who  acted  as  interpreter.  They  struck  into  an  Indian  "  trail," 
leading  to  Neamathla's  village.  After  proceeding  about  half 
a  mile,  Governor  Duval  informed  the  interpreter  of  the  object 
of  his  expedition.  The  latter,  though  a  bold  man,  paused  and 
remonstrated.  The  Indians  among  whom  they  were  going  wore 
among  the  most  desperate  and  discontented  of  the  nation.  Many 
of  them  were  veteran  warriors,  impoverished  and  exasperated 
by  defeat,  and  ready  to  set  their  lives  at  any  hazard.  He  said 
that  if  they  were  holding  a  war  council,  it  must  be  with  desperate 
intent,  and  it  would  be  certain  death  to  intrude  among  them. 

Duval  made  light  of  his  apprehensions :  he  said  he  was  per- 
fectly well  acquainted  with  the  Indian  character,  and  should 
certainly  proceed.  So  saying,  he  rode  on.  When  within  half  a 
mile  of  the  village,  the  interpreter  addressed  him  again,  in  such 
a  tremulous  tone  that  Duval  turned  and  looked  him  in  the  face. 
He  was  deadly  pale,  and  once  more  urged  the  governor  to  return, 
as  they  would  certainly  be  massacred  if  they  proceeded. 

Duval  repeated  his  determination  to  go  on,  but  advised  the 
other  to  return,  lest  ins  pale  face  should  betray  fear  to  the  In- 
dians, and  they  might  take  advantage  of  it.  The  interpreter 
replied  that  he  would  rather  die  a  thousand  deaths  than  have  it 
said  he  had  deserted  his  leader  when  in  peril. 

Duval  then  told  him  he  must  translate  faithfully  all  he  should 
say  to  the  Indians,  without  softening  a  word.  The  interpreter 
promised  faithfully  to  do  so,  adding  that  he  well  knew,  wLon 
they  were  once  in  the  tonn,  nothing  but  boldness  could  save  them. 

They  now  rode  into  the  village,  and  advanced  to  the  council- 
house.  This  was  rather  a  group  of  four  houses,  forming  a 
square,  in  the  centre  of  whitii  was  a  great  council-fire.  The 
houses  were  open  in  front,  toward  the  fire,  and  closed  in  the 
rear.  At  each  corner  of  the  square  there  was  an  interval  be- 
tween the  houses,  for  ingress  and  egress.  In  these  houses  sat 
the  old  men  and  the  chiefs  ;  the  young  men  were  gathered  round 
the  fire.  Neamathla  presided  at  the  council,  elevated  on  a 
higher  seat  than  the  rest. 


U 


11' 


i 


t' 


',*  «t 


i] 


111 


146 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


I 


i  M     ( 


Governor  Duval  entered  by  one  of  the  corner  intervals,  ami 
rode  boldly  into  the  centre  of  the  square.  The  young  men  iniule 
way  for  him  ;  an  old  man  who  was  speaking,  paused  in  the 
midst  of  his  harangue.  In  an  instant  thirty  or  forty  rifles  wore 
cocked  and  levelled.  Never  had  Duval  heard  so  loud  a  click  of 
triggers  :  it  seemed  to  strike  to  his  heart.  He  gave  one  glance 
at  the  Indians,  and  tiu-ned  off  with  an  air  of  contempt.  He  din 
not  dare,  he  says,  to  look  again,  lest  it  might  affect  his  nerves: 
and  on  the  firmness  of  his  nerves  every  thing  depended. 

The  chief  threw  up  his  arm.  The  rifles  were  lowered.  Duval 
breathed  more  freely :  he  felt  disposed  to  leap  from  liis  horse, 
but  restrained  himself,  and  dismounted  leisurely.  He  then 
walked  deliberately  up  to  Neamathla,  and  demanded,  in  an 
authoritative  tone,  what  were  his  motives  for  holding  that  coun- 
cil. The  moment  he  made  this  demand,  the  orator  sat  down. 
The  chief  made  no  reply,  but  hung  his  head  in  apparent  confu- 
sion.    After  a  moment's  pause,  Duval  proceeded  : 

"I  am  well  aware  of  the  meaning  of  this  war-council ;  and 
deem  it  my  duty  to  warn  you  against  prosecuting  the  schemes 
you  have  been  devising.  If  a  siagle  hair  of  a  white  man  in  tiiis 
country  falls  to  the  ground,  I  will  hang  you  and  your  chiefs  on 
the  trees  around  your  council-house !  You  cannot  pretend  to 
withstand  the  power  ot  the  white  men.  You  are  in  the  [)alni  of 
the  hand  of  your  Great  Father  at  Washington,  who  can  cnisli 
you  like  an  egg-shell.  You  may  kill  me :  I  am  but  one  n)an  ; 
but  recollect,  white  men  are  numerous  as  the  leaves  on  the  trees. 
Remember  the  fate  of  your  warriors  whose  nones  are  whitening 
in  battle-fields.  Remember  your  wives  and  children  wlio  per- 
ished in  swamps.  Do  you  want  to  provoke  more  hostilities? 
Another  war  with  the  white  men,  and  there  will  not  be  a  Sem- 
inole left  to  tell  the  story  of  his  race." 

Seeing  the  effect  of  his  words,  he  concluded  by  appointing  a 
day  for  the  Indians  to  meet  him  at  St.  Marks,  and  give  an  ac- 
count of  their  conduct.  He  then  rode  off,  without  giving  tlicni 
time  to  recover  from  their  surprise.  That  night  he  rode  forty 
miles  to  Appalachicola  River,  to  the  tribe  of  the  same  name,  who 
were  in  feud  with  the  Seminoles.  They  pronii)tly  put  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  warriors  at  his  disposal,  whom  he  oixlered  to  be  at 
St.  Marks  at  the  appointed  day.  He  sent  out  ruiuiers,  also, 
and  mustered  one  hundred  of  the  militia  to  repair  to  the  same 
place,  together  with  a  number  of  regulars  from  the  army.  All 
his  arrangements  were  successful. 

Having  taken  these  measures,  he  returned  to  Tallahassee,  to 
the  neighborhood  of  the  conspirators,  to  show  them  that  he  was 


THE  CONSP-IRACY  OF  NEAMATHLA. 


14T 


rvals,  and 

men  inudi' 

»e(l  in  tlie 

rifles  woro 

:v  click  of 

lie  glance 

He  (lid 

is  nerves: 

d. 

(1.     Duval 

liis  horse, 

He    then 

<1,  in   ail 

that  couii- 

sat  down. 

L'llt  coufu- 

incil  ;  and 
e  schemes 
iiiin  ill  this 

chiefs  on 
)retcn(l  to 
ic  palm  of 
ciin  crush 
one  man  ; 
I  the  trees, 
whiteiiiiit; 

who  per- 
lostilities? 
)e  a  SeiiN 

)olntin<T  a 
ve  an  ac- 
ting them 
rode  forty 
lanie,  who 
two  huu- 
sd  to  he  at 
lers,  also, 
the  sanjc 
•my.     All 

liassee,  to 
at  he  was 


not  afraid.  Here  he  ascertained,  through  Yellow-Hair,  that 
nine  towns  were  disaffected,  and  had  been  concerned  in  the 
conspiracy.  He  was  careful  to  inform  himself,  from  the  same 
source,  of  the  names  of  the  warriors  in  each  of  those  towns  who 
were  most  popular,  tluKigh  poor,  and  destitute  of  rank  and 
command. 

When  the  appointed  day  was  at  hand  for  the  meeting  at  St- 
Marks,  Governor  Duval  set  ofT  with  Neamathla,  who  was  at  tlie 
head  of  eight  or  nine  hundred  warriors,  but  who  feared  to  ven- 
ture into  the  fort  without  him.  As  they  entered  the  fort,  and 
saw  troops  and  militia  drawn  up  there,  and  a  force  of  Appalaehi- 
cola  soldiers  stationed  on  the  opposite  bauk  of  the  river,  they 
thought  they  were  betrayed,  and  were  about  to  fly ;  but  Duval 
assured  them  they  were  safe,  and  that  when  the  talk  was  over, 
they  might  go  home  unmolested. 

A  grand  talk  was  now  held,  in  which  the  late  conspiracy  wa3 
discussed.  As  he  had  foreseen,  Neamathla  and  the  other  old 
chiefs  threw  all  the  blame  upon  the  young  men.  .  "  Well,"  re- 
plied Duval,  "with  us  white  men,  when  we  find  a  man  incom- 
petent to  govern  those  under  him,  we  put  him  down,  and  appoint 
another  in  his  place.  Now,  as  you  all  acknowledge  you  cannot 
manage  your  young  men,  we  must  put  chiefs  over  them  who 
can.'' 

So  saying,  he  deposed  Neamathla  first ;  appointing  another 
in  his  place ;  and  sc  on  with  all  the  rest :  taking  care  to  sub- 
stitute the  warriors  who  had  been  pointed  out  to  him  as  poor 
and  popular ;  putting  medals  round  their  necks,  and  investing 
them  with  great  ceremony.  The  Indians  were  surprised  and 
delighted  at  findin;:  the  appointments  fall  upon  the  very  men 
they  would  themselves  have  chosen,  and  hailed  them  with  ac- 
clamations. The  warriors  thus  unexpectedly  elevated  to  com- 
mand, and  clothed  with  dignitj',  were  secured  to  the  interests 
of  the  governor,  and  sure  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  disaffected. 
As  to  the  great  chief  Neamathla,  he  left  the  country  in  dis- 
gust, and  returned  to  the  Creek  nation,  who  elected  him  a  chief 
of  one  of  their  towns.  Thus  by  the  resolute  spirit  and  prompt 
sagacity  of  one  man,  a  dangerous  conspiracy  was  completely 
defeated.  Governor  Duval  was  afterward  enabled  to  emove 
the  whole  nation,  through  his  own  personal  influence,  without 
the  aid  of  the  general  government. 


i  I  '. 


148 


TUE  C HA  YON  PAPERS. 


To  the  Editor  of  the  Kuiclierhocker. 

Sin:  The  following  U'ttor  was  .scribbled  to  a  friend  diirin*;, 
my  sojourn  in  the  Alhambra,  in  1«2H.  As  it  presents  sci-nes 
and  impressions  noted  down  at  tlie  time,  I  venture  to  oiler  it 
for  the  consideration  of  your  readers.  Should  it  prove  accept- 
able,  I  may  from  time  to  time  give  other  letters,  written  in  tlio 
course  of  my  various  ramblings,  and  which  have  been  kiiidiy 
restored  to  me  by  my  friends.     Yours,  G.  C. 


Mv  Dear 


LETTER  FROM  GRENADA. 

Oranada.IWS. 

—  :  Religious  festivals  furnish,  in  all    Catholic 


countries,  occasions  of  popular  pageant  and  recreation  ;  but  in 
none  more  so  than  in  Spain,  where  the  great  end  of  religion 
seems  to  be  to  create  holidays  and  ceremonials.  For  two  days 
past,  Granada  has  been  in  a  gay  turmoil  with  the  great  annual 
fete  of  Corpus  Christi.  This  most  eventful  and  romantic  city, 
as  you  well  know,  has  c\er  been  the  rallying  point  of  a  moim- 
tainous  region,  studded  with  small  towns  and  villages.  Hither, 
during  the  time  that  Granada  was  the  splendid  capital  of  a 
Moorish  kingdom,  the  IMoslem  youth  repaired  from  all  points, 
to  participate  in  chivalrous  festivities  ;  and  hither  the  Spanish 
populace  at  tlie  present  day  throng  from  all  parts  of  the  sur- 
rounding country  to  attend  the  festivals  of  the  church. 

As  the  populace  like  to  enjoy  things  from  the  very  com- 
mencement, the  stir  of  Corpus  Christi  began  in  Granada  on 
the  preceding  evening.  Before  dark  the  gates  of  the  city  were 
thronged  with  the  picturesque  j)easantry  fioin  the  mountain 
villages,  and  the  brown  laborers  from  the  Vega,  or  vast  fertile 
plain.  As  the  evening  advanced,  the  Vivarambla  thickened 
and  swarmed  with  a  motley  multitude.  This  is  the  great 
square  in  the  centre  of  the  city,  famous  for  tilts  and  tourneys 
during  the  time  of  ^Moorish  domination,  and  incessantly  men- 
tioned in  all  the  old  Moorish  ballads  of  love  and  chivalry. 
For  several  days  the  hammer  had  resounded  throughout  tliis 
square.  A  gallery  of  wood  1  ad  been  erected  all  round  it,  form- 
ing a  covered  way  for  the  grand  procession  of  Corpus  Christi. 
On  this  eve  of  the  ceremonial  this  gallery  was  a  fashionable 
promenade.  It  was  brilliantly  illuminated,  bands  of  music  were 
stationed  in  balconies  on  the  four  sides  of  the  scjuare,  and  all 
tbe  fashion  and  beauty  of  Granada,  and  all  its  population  that 


I 


nd  (lurin*:, 

Ills    SCl'lU'S 

to  oiler  it 
V(!  jicccpt- 
ten  in  tlio 
een  kiiidiy 
G.  C. 


NAnA,lS2S. 

1  Catholic 
)n  ;  hut  in 
of  religion 
r  two  (lays 
x'at  annual 
lantic  city, 
if  a  nioini- 
!.  Ilitlicr, 
ipital  of  a 
all  points, 
le  S[)anisli 
)f  the  sur- 
1. 

very  com- 
raiiatla  on 
J  city  wore 

mountain 
I'ast  fertile 

thickened 
the  groat 
[I  tourneys 
antly  nien- 
\  chivalry, 
j^hout  tliis 
id  it,  forni- 
)us  Cliristi. 
fashionable 
music  were 
ro,  and  all 
lation  that 


LETTER   FROM  GRANADA. 


110 


jould  l)oa8t  a  little  finery  of  apparel,  together  with  the  viajos 
and  vKipii,  the  l.eaux  and  belles  of  the  villages,  in  their  gay 
Andalusian  costumes,  thronged  this  covorod  walk,  anxious  to 
gee  and  to  be  seen.  As  to  tiie  sturdy  peasantry  of  the  Vega, 
and  such  of  the  mountaineers  as  did  not  i)ri'tend  to  display,  but 
were  content  with  hearty  enjoyment,  they  swarmed  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  s(piare  ;  some  in  groups  listening  to  the  guitar  and 
the  traditional  ballad;  some  dancing  their  favorite  bolero; 
^oine  seated  on  the  grounil  making  a  merry  though  frugal 
3iipi)or ;  .'.nd  some  stretched  out  for  their  night's  re|)ose. 

TliP  gay  crovvd  of  the  gallery  dispersed  gradually  toward 
midnight ;  bui  the  centre  of  the  square  resembled  the  bivouac 
of  an  army  ;  for  hundreds  of  the  peasantry,  men,  women,  and 
children,  i)assed  the  night  there,  sleeping  soundly  on  the  bare 
,;arth,  under  the  open  canopy  of  heaven.  A  summer's  night  re- 
quires no  shelter  in  this  genial  climate ;  and  with  a  great 
part  of  the  hardy  i)easantry  of  SpaiJi,  a  bed  is  a  superfluity 
which  many  of  them  never  enjoy,  and  which  they  affect  to 
despise.  The  common  Spaniard  spreads  out  his  manta,  or 
mule-cloth,  or  wraps  himself  in  his  cloak,  and  lies  on  the 
ground,  with  his  saddle  for  a  pillow. 

The  next  morning  I  revisited  the  square  at  sunrise.  It  was 
still  strewed  with  groups  of  sleepers  ;  some  were  reposing  from 
the  dance  and  revel  of  the  evening ;  ethers  had  left  their  vil- 
lages after  work,  on  the  preceding  day,  and  having  trudged  on 
foot  the  greater  part  of  the  night,  were  hiking  a  sound  sleep  to 
freshen  them  for  the  festivities  of  the  day.  Numbers  from  the 
mountains,  and  the  remote  villages  of  the  plain,  who  had  set 
out  in  the  night,  continued  to  arrive,  with  their  wives  and 
children.  All  were  in  high  spirits  ;  greeting  each  other,  and 
exchanging  jokes  and  pleasantries.  The  gay  tumult  thickened 
as  the  day  advanced.  Now  came  pouring  in  at  the  city  gates, 
and  parading  through  the  streets,  the  deputations  from  the 
various  villages,  destined  to  swell  the  grand  procession.  These 
village  deputations  were  headed  by  their  priests,  bearing  their 
respective  crosses  and  bann(Ms,  and  images  of  the  Blessed  Vir- 
gin and  of  patron  saints ;  all  which  were  matters  of  great 
rivalship  and  jealousy  among  the  peasantry.  It  was  like  the 
chivalrous  gatherings  of  ancient  days,  when  each  town  and 
village  sent  its  chiefs,  and  warriors,  and  sta:  lards,  to  defend 
the  capital,  or  grace  its  festivities. 

At  length,  all  these  varions  detachments  congregated  into 
one  grand  pageant,  which  slowly  paraded  round  the  Viva- 
ranibla,  and  through  the  principal  streets,  where  every  window 


150 


THE  CJIAYON   PAPERS. 


,.!    i 


■»  \    '. 


I 


.IN     c 


and  balcony  was  liung  with  tapostry.  In  this  procession  Tore 
all  the  religious  orders,  the  civil  and  military  authorities,  and 
the  chief  people  of  the  parishes  and  villages ;  every  churcli  and 
convent  had  contributed  its  banners,  its  images,  its  relics, 
and  poured  forth  its  wealth,  for  the  occasion.  In  tlie  centre 
of  the  procession  walked  the  archbishop,  under  a  damask  can- 
opy, and  surrounded  by  inferior  dignitaries  and  their  depend- 
ants. The  whole  moved  to  the  swell  and  cadence  of  numerous 
bands  of  music,  and,  passing  through  the  midst  of  a  countless 
yet  silent  multitude,  prf)ceeded  onwar'^  to  the  cathedral. 

I  could  not  but  be  struck  with  the  changes  of  times  and  cus- 
toms, as  I  saw  this  monkish  pageant  passing  through  tlie 
Vivarambla,  the  ancient  seat  of  modern  pomp  and  cliivalrv. 
The  contrast  was  indeed  forced  upon  the  mind  by  the  decora- 
tions of  the  square.  The  whole  front  of  the  wooden  gallcrv 
erected  for  the  procession,  extending  several  hundred  feet,  was 
faced  with  canvas,  on  which  some  humble  though  patriotic 
artist  had  painted,  by  contract,  a  series  of  the  principal  scenes 
and  exploits  of  the  conquest,  as  recorded  in  chronicle  and 
romance.  It  is  thus  the  romantic  legends  of  Granada  mingle 
themselves  with  every  thing,  and  are  kept  fresh  in  the  piiltlic 
mind.  Another  great  festival  at  (Iranada,  answering  in  its 
popular  character  to  our  Fourth  of  July,  is  El  Did  dc  la  Tnma; 
"  The  Day  of  the  Capture  ;  "  that  is  to  say,  the  anniversary  of 
the  capture  of  the  city  by  Ferdinand  and  Is:il)ella.  On  this  day 
all  Granad.t  is  abandoned  to  revelry.  The  alarm  bell  on  the 
Terre  de  la  Campana,  or  watch-tower  of  tlie  /Vlhanilira,  keeps 
up  a  clangor  from  morn  till  night ;  and  linppy  is  the  damsel 
that  can  ring  that  bell ;  it  is  a  charm  to  secure  a  husband  in 
the  course  of  the  year. 

The  sound,  which  can  be  heard  over  the  whole  Vega,  and  to 
the  top  of  the  mountains,  summons  tiic  peasantry  to  the  festivi- 
ties. Throughout  the  day  the  Alhanibra  is  thrown  open  to  the 
public.  The  halls  and  courts  of  the  Moorish  tnonarchs  re- 
sound with  the  guitar  and  castanet,  and  gay  groups,  in  the 
fanciful  dresses  of  Andalusia,  perform  those  popular  dances 
which  they  have  inherited  from  the  Moors. 

In  the  meati  time  a  grand  procession  moves  through  the  city. 
The  banner  of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella,  that  precious  relic  of 
the  conquest,  is  brought  forth  from  its  depository,  and  borne  by 
the  Alferez  Mayor,  or  grand  standard-bearer,  through  the  prin- 
cipal streets.  The  portable  camp-altar,  which  was  carried 
about  with  them  l;i  all  their  campaigns,  is  trrinspoitcd  into  tlie 
chapel  royal,  and  placed   before    theii-   scjtulchre.   where   their 


ocossion  Tcre 
itlioritics,  and 
ry  clmrcli  and 
OS,  its  relics, 
Tn  the  centre 
.  damask  pan- 
their  depcnd- 

of  numerous 
of  a  countless 
edral. 
Jmos  and  ciis- 

through  the 
and  chivalry. 
:»y  the  decora- 
oodcn  gallerv 
drod  feet,  was 
nigh  patriotic 
incipal  scenes 
chronicle  and 
Canada  mingle 

in  the  pulilic 
wering  in  its 
f  (1e  hi  Tom  a; 
[inniversary  of 
.  On  this  (lay 
m  bell  on  the 
lianilira,  keeps 
is  the  damsel 
a  husband  in 

'  Voga,  and  to 
to  the  festivi- 

n  open  to  the 
tnonarchs   re- 

jroups,  in  the 

opular  (hmces 

I'ough  the  city. 
L'cious  relic  of 
,  and  borne  Ity 
ough  the  prin- 
I  was  carried 
orted  into  the 
.',   where    their 


LETTER  FROM  GTiA:!TADA. 


151 


effigies  lie  in  monumcnt.xl  marble.  The  procession  fills  the 
chapel.  High  mass  is  pei formed  in  memory  of  the  conquest; 
and  at  a  certuin  part  of  the  ceremony  the  Alferez  Mayor  puts 
on  his  hat,  ojid  waves  the  standard  above  the  tomb  of  the  con- 
querors. 

A  more  whimsical  memorial  of  the  conquest  is  exhibited  on 
the  same  evening  at  the  theatre,  where  a  popular  drama  is 
performed,  entitled  Ave  Maria.  This  turns  on  the  oft-sung 
achievement  of  Hernando  del  Pulgar,  surnamed  El  de  las 
Huzahas,  "  Hi  of  the  Exploits,"  the  favorite  hero  of  the  popu- 
lace of  Granada. 

During  the  time  that  Ferdinaiid  and  Isabella  besieged  the 
city,  the  young  Moorish  and  Spanish  knights  vied  with  each 
other  in  extravagant  bravados.  (Jn  one  occasion  Hernando  del 
Pulgar,  at  the  head  of  a  handful  of  youthful  followers,  made  a 
dash  into  Granada  at  the  dead  of  night,  nailed  the  inscription 
of  Ave  Maria,  with  his  dagger,  to  tlie  gate  of  the  principal 
mosque,  as  a  token  of  having  consecrated  it  to  the  virgin,  and 
effected  his  retreat  in  safety. 

While  the  Moorish  cavaliers  admired  this  daring  exploit,  they 
felt  bound  to  revenge  it.  On  the  following  day,  therefore,  Tarfe, 
one  of  the  stoutest  of  the  infidel  warriors,  paraded  in  front  of 
the  Christian  army,  dragging  the  sacred  inscription  of  Ave 
Maria  at  his  horse's  tail.  I'he  cause  of  the  Virgin  was  eagerly 
vindicated  by  Garcilaso  de  la  Vega,  who  slew  the  Moor  in  single 
combat,  and  elevated  the  inscription  of  Ave  Maria,  in  devotion 
and  triumph,  at  the  end  of  his  lance. 

The  drama  founded  on  this  exploit  is  prodigiously  popular 
with  the  common  people.  Althougli  it  has  been  acted  time  out 
of  mind,  and  the  people  !\ave  seen  it  repeatedly,  it  never  fails 
to  draw  crowds,  and  so  completely  to  engross  the  feelings  of 
the  audience,  as  to  have  almost  the  effect  on  them  of  realit}'. 
When  their  favorite  Pulgar  strides  about  with  many  a  mouthy 
speech,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  Moorish  capital,  he  is  cheered 
with  enthusiastic  bravos  ;  and  when  he  nails  the  tablet  of  Ave 
Maria  to  the  door  of  the  mosque,  the  theatre  absolutely  shakes 
widi  shouts  and  thunders  of  applause.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
actors  who  play  tlie  part  of  the  Moors,  have  to  bear  the  brunt 
of  the  temporary  indignation  of  their  auditors  ;  and  when  the 
infidel  Tarfe  plucks  down  the  tablet  to  tie  it  to  his  horse's  tail, 
many  of  the  people  absolutely  rise  in  fury,  and  are  ready  to 
jump  upon  tlif;  stage  to  revenge  this  insult  to  the  Virgin. 

Besiile  this  annual  festival  at  the  cajvital,  almost  every  village 
of  the  Vega  and  the  mountains  has  its  own  auniversaiiv,  wherein 


!    » 


I 


I    ;•« 


152 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


i  i 


^1/ 


its  own  deliverance  from  the  Moorish  yoke  is  celebrated  with 
uncouth  ceremony  and  rustic  pomp. 

On  these  occasions  a  kind  of  resurrection  takes  place  of 
.^-:  '.ent  Spanish  dresses  and  armor ;  great  two-handed  swords, 
ponderous  arquebuses,  witli  match-locks,  and  other  weapons  and 
accoutrements,  once  the  equipments  of  the  village  chivalry,  and 
treasured  up  from  generation  to  generation,  since  the  time  of 
the  conquest.  In  tliese  hereditary  and  historical  garbs  some  of 
the  most  sturdy  of  the  villagers  array  themselves  as  champions 
of  the  faith,  while  its  ancient  opponents  are  represented  l)v 
another  band  of  villagers,  dressed  up  as  IVIoorish  warriors.  A 
tent  is  pitched  in  the  public  square  of  the  village,  within  wliich 
is  an  altar,  and  an  im3,ge  of  the  Virgin.  The  Spanish  warriors 
approach  to  perform  their  devotions  at  this  shrine,  but  are  op- 
posed by  the  infidel  Moslems,  who  surround  the  tent.  A  mock 
fight  succeeds,  in  the  course  of  which  the  combatants  sometimes 
forget  that  they  are  merely  playing  a  part,  and  exciiange  dry 
blows  of  grievous  weiglit ;  the  fictitious  Moors  especially  are 
apt  to  bear  away  pretty  evident  marks  of  the  pious  zeal  of  their 
antagonists.  The  contest,  however,  invariably  terminates  in 
favor  of  the  good  cause.  T'<.e  Moors  are  defeated  and  taken 
prisoners.  The  image  of  the  Virgin,  rescued  from  thraldom,  is 
elevated  in  triumph  ;  and  a  grand  procession  succeeds,  in  which 
the  Spanish  conquerors  figure  with  great  vainglory  and  ap- 
plause, and  their  captives  are  led  in  chains,  to  the  infinite  deligiit 
and  edification  of  the  poi)uhu'e.  These  annual  festivals  are  the 
delight  of  the  villagers,  who  expend  considerable  sums  iu  their 
celebration.  In  some  villages  they  are  occasionally  obliged  to 
suspend  them  for  waut  of  funds  ;  but  when  times  grow  better, 
or  they  have  been  enal)led  to  save  money  for  the  jjurpose,  they 
are  revived  with  all  their  grotes(jiie  pomp  and  extravagance. 

To  recur  to  the  exploit  of  Hernando  del  I'ulgar.  However 
extravagant  and  fabulous  it  may  seem,  it  is  authenticated  l>y 
certain  tradition.al  usages,  and  shows  the  vain-glorious  darini; 
that  prevailed  between  the  youthful  warriors  of  both  nations,  in 
that  romantic  war.  The  mosque  thus  consecrated  to  the  \'irgin 
was  made  the  cathedral  of  the  city  after  the  conquest ;  and  there 
is  a  painting  of  the  Virgin  besiile  the  royal  chapel,  which  was 
put  there  by  Hernando  del  I'ulgar.  The  lineal  representative  of 
the  hare-brained  cavalier  lias  the  right  to  this  day  to  enter  the 
church,  on  certain  occasions,  on  horseback,  to  sit  witliin  the 
choir,  and  to  put  on  his  liat  at  the  elevation  of  the  host,  thongli 
tiiese  privileges  ha»e  often  been  obstinately  contested  by  the 
clergy. 


ABDERAHMAN. 


155 


ebrated  with 

fes   place  of 
ided  swords, 
weapons  and 
chivalry,  and 
the  time  of 
arbs  some  of 
as  champions 
presented  In- 
war  riors.     A 
within  which 
nish  warriors 
but  are  op- 
'iit.     A  mock 
its  sometimes 
ixchansje  dry 
'specially  are 
zeal  of  their 
terminates  in 
2d  and  taken 
1  thraldom,  is 
eds,  in  wliidi 
;lory  and  ap- 
ufinite  delight 
^tivals  are  tlie 
sums  in  their 
lly  obligeci  to 
I  grow  better, 
l)urpose,  they 
avagance. 
ir.     However 
lienticated  l)y 
orious  darinjf 
th  nations,  in 
to  the  N'irgin 
st ;  and  there 
el,  which  was 
resentative  of 
;  to  enter  the 
lit  within  the 
host,  tliougli 
.ested  by  the 


The  present  lineal  rejnvsentativc  of  Hernando  del  Pulgar  is 
the  Marquis  de  Salar,  whom  1  have  met  occasionally  in  society. 
He  is  a  young  man  of  agreeable  appearance  and  manners,  and 
his  bright  black  eyes  wouhl  give  indication  of  his  inheriting  the 
fire  of  Ids  ancestor.  When  the  paintings  were  put  up  in  the 
Vivarambla,  illustrating  the  scenes  of  the  conquest,  an  old  gray- 
oeaded  family  servant  of  the  Pulgars  was  so  delighted  with 
tliose  which  related  to  the  family  hero,  that  he  absolutely  shed 
tears,  and  hurrying  home  to  the  Marquis,  urged  him  to  hasten 
and  behold  the  family  trophies.  The  sudden  zeal  of  the  old 
man  provoked  the  mirth  of  his  young  master ;  upon  which  turn- 
ing to  the  brother  of  the  Marquis,  with  that  freedom  allowed  to 
faniily  servants  in  Spain,  "Come,  Senor,"  cried  he,  "you  are 
more  grave  and  considerate  than  your  brother ;  come  and  see 
your  ancestor  in  all  his  glory  !  " 


Within  two  or  three  years  after  the  above  letter  was  written, 
the  INIarquis  de  Salar  was  married  to  the  beautiful  daughter  of 

the  Count ,  mentioned  by  the  author  in  his  anecdotes  of  the 

Alhaud)ra.     The  match  was  very  agreeable  to  all  parties,  and 
the  nuptials  were  celebrated  with  great  festivity. 


ABDERAHMAN : 


FOUNDEU   OF   TIIS:    DYNASTY   OF   THE   OMMIADES   IN   SPAIN. 

To  the  Editor  of  the  KnickerbonJier. 

SiK :  In  the  following  memoir  I  have  conformed  to  the  facts 
furnished  by  the  Arabian  chroniclers,  as  cited  by  the  learned 
Conde.  The  story  of  Abdor.'dnnan  has  almost  the  charm  of 
romance ;  but  it  derives  a  higher  interest  from  the  heroic  yet 
gentle  virtues  which  it  illustrates,  and  from  recording  the  for- 
tunes of  the  founder  of  that  splendid  dynasty,  which  shed  such 
a  lustre, upon  Spain  during  the;  domination  of  the  Arabs.  Ab- 
derahman  may,  in  some  resi)ects,  be  compared  to  our  own 
Washington.  He  achieved  the  independence  of  Moslem  Spain, 
freeing  it  from  suojection  to  the  caliphs  ;  he  united  its  jarring 
parts  under  one  government ;  he  ruled  over  it  with  justice, 
clemency,  and  moderation  ;  his  whole  course  of  conduct  wjw 


i 


.¥  i 


154 


THE  CBAYOn  PAPERS. 


distinguished  by  wonderful  forbearance  and  magnanimity ;  and 
when  he  died  he  left  a  legacy  of  good  example  and  good  coun- 
sel to  his  successors.  G.  C. 


II       -i*'>:f 


"Blessed  be  God!"  exclaims  an  Arabian  historian;  "in 
His  hands  alone  is  the  destiny  of  princes.  He  overthrows  tlie 
mighty,  and  humbles  the  haughty  to  the  dust ;  and  he  raises  up 
the  persecuted  and  afflicted  from  the  very  depths  of  despair!  " 

The  illustrious  house  of  Omeya  had  sv/ayed  the  sceptre  at 
Damascus  for  nearly  a  century,  when  a  rebellion  broke  out, 
headed  by  Al)oul  Abbas  Safah,  who  aspired  to  the  throiu'  of 
the  caliphs,  as  being  descended  from  Abbas,  the  uncle  of  tlie 
prophet.  The  rebellion  was  successful.  IVIarvau,  the  last 
caliph  of  the  house  of  (^ineya,  was  defeated  and  slain.  A  <i('u- 
eral  proscription  of  the  Omniiades  took  i)lace.  Many  of  tiu'in 
fell  in  battle;  many  were  treacherously  slain,  in  phices  wluMe 
they  had  taken  refuge ;  al)ove  seventy  most  noble  and  distin- 
guished were  murdered  at  a  bancpiet  to  which  they  had  luin 
invited,  and  their  dead  bodies  covered  with  clotlis,  and  made  to 
serve  as  tables  for  tlie  horrible  festivity.  Others  were  driven 
forth,  forlorn  and  desolate  wanderers  in  various  parts  of  tlio 
earth,  and  pursued  with  relentless  hatred  ;  for  it  was  the  de- 
termination of  the  usur[)er  tiiat  not  one  of  the  j)ersecuted  fam- 
ily should  escape.  Aboul  Abbas  took  possi'ssion  of  tlireo 
stately  palaces,  and  delicious  gardens,  and  founded  the  power- 
ful dynasty  of  the  Abba?sides.  which,  for  several  centuries, 
maintained  dominion  in  the  east. 

''•  Hlessed  be  God  I  "  again  exclaims  the  Arabian  historian; 
"  it  was  written  in  His  eternal  decrees  that,  notwithstanding  tiie 
fury  of  the  Abbassides,  the  noble  stock  of  Omeya  should  not  lie 
destroyed.  One  fruitful  branch  remained  to  (lourish  with  glory 
and  greatness  in  another  land." 

When  the  sanguinary  proscription  of  the  Omniiades  took 
place,  two  young  princes  of  that  line,  brothers,  by  the  names 
of  Solyman  and  Abderahman,  were  spared  for  a  time.  Tlieir 
personal  graces,  noble  demeanor,  and  winning  affability,  luul 
made  them  many  friends,  while  their  extreme  youth  re!i(leie(l 
them  objects  of  but  little  dread  to  the  usuri^'r.  Theiu  safety, 
rowever,  was  but  transient.  In  a  little  while  the  suspicions  of 
Aboul  Abbas  were  aroused.  The  unfortunate  Solyman  fell 
beneath  the  scimitar  of  the  executioner.  His  brother  Abderali 
man  was  warned  of  his  danger  in  time.  .Several  of  his  friends 
hastened  to  him,  bringing  him  jewels,  a  disguise,  and  a  lleet 


ABDEBAHMAN. 


155 


nimity;  and 
good  conn. 
G.  C. 


orian  ;  "  in 

rthrows  tlie 

he  raises  up 

despair !  " 

sceptre  at 

broke  out, 

'  throne  of 

nele  of  tlic 

11,    the   last 

■•"•     A  ucii- 

iiiy  of  tii,.||, 

)Iaees  wlieic 

and  distill- 

y  liad  lieeii 

ind  made  to 

were  <h'ivcii 

)arts  of  Mio 

was  the  dc- 

leeuted  fain- 

m   of   three 

the  jiower- 

.1   centuries, 

1  historian ; 
itandino-  the 
lould  not  l)e 
1  witli  glory 

liades  took 
the  names 
me.  Their 
!d)ility,  liad 
li  rendered 
lieJB  safety, 
ispicions  of 
)lynian  fell 
r  AI)di'r;iIi 
his  fi'iends 
aud  a  lleet 


horse,  "  The  emissaries  of  the  caliph,"  said  they,  **  are  in  search 
of  thee  ;  thy  brother  lies  weltering  in  his  blood  ;  fly  to  the  des- 
ert !    There  is  no  safety  for  thee  in  the  habitations  of  man ! " 

Abderahman  took  the  jewels,  clad  himself  in  the  disguise, 
and  mounting  the  steed,  fled  for  his  life.  As  he  passed,  a  lone- 
ly fugitive,  by  the  palaces  of  his  ancestors,  in  which  his  family 
had  long  held  sway,  their  very  walls  seemed  disposed  to  betray 
him,  as  they  echoed  the  swift  clattering  of  his  steed. 

Abandoning  his  native  country,  Syria,  where  he  w£*8  liable 
at  each  moment  to  be  recognized  and  taken,  he  took  refuge 
among  the  Bedouin  Arabs,  a  half-savage  race  of  shepherds. 
His  youth,  his  inborn  majesty  and  grace,  and  the  sweetness  and 
affability  that  shone  forth  in  his  azure  eyes,  won  the  hearts  of 
these  wandering  men.  He  was  but  twenty  years  of  age,  and 
had  been  reared  in  the  soft  luxury  of  a  palace ;  but  he  was  tall 
and  vigorous,  and  in  a  little  while  hardened  himself  so  com- 
pletely to  the  rustic  life  of  the  fields  that  it  seemed  as  tliough 
he  had  passed  all  his  days  in  the  rude  simplicity  of  a  shepherd's 
cabin. 

His  enemies,  however,  were  upon  his  traces,  and  gave  him 
but  little  rest.  By  day  he  scoured  the  plains  with  the  Bedouins, 
hearing  in  every  blast  the  sound  of  pursuit,  and  fancying  in 
every  ilistaut  cloud  of  dust  a  troop  of  the  caliph's  horsemen. 
His  night  was  passed  in  broken  sleep  and  frequent  watchings, 
and  at  the  earliest  dawn  he  was  the  first  to  put  the  bridle  to  his 
steed. 

Wearied  by  these  perpetual  alarms,  he  bade  farewell  to  his 
friendly  Bedouins,  and  leaving  P^gypt  behind,  sought  a  safer 
refuge  in  Western  Africa.  The  province  of  Barea  was  at  that 
time  governed  by  Aben  Habib,  who  had  risen  to  rank  and  for- 
tune under  the  fostering  favor  of  the  Ommiades.  "  Surely," 
thought  the  unhappy  prince,  *'  I  shall  receive  kindness  and  pro- 
tection from  this  man  ;  he  will  rejoice  to  show  his  gratitude  for 
the  benefits  showered  upon  him  by  my  kindred." 

Abderahman  was  young,  and  as  yet  knew  little  of  mankind. 
None  are  so  hostile  to  the  victim  of  power  as  those  whom  he 
has  befriended.  They  fear  being  suspected  of  gratitude  by  his 
persecutors,  and  involved  v'.  his  i^isfortunes. 

'I'he  unfortunate  Abderahman  had  halted  for  a  few  days  to 
repose  himself  among  a  horde  of  Bedouins,  who  had  received 
him  with  tlieir  characteristic  hospitality.  They  would  gather 
round  him  in  the  eveiungs,  to  listen  to  his  conversation,  regard- 
ing with  wonder  this  gently-spoken  stranger  from  the  more  re- 
fined country  of  Eg''pt.     The  old  men  marvelled  to  find  oo  much 


'  ^:-    ! 


It 


y 


% 


■■/I 


156 


THE  CRAYON   PAJ'ERS. 


knowledge  and  wisdom  in  such  early  3'^outli,  nnd  the  young  men, 
won  by  his  frauli  and  manly  carriage,  entreated  him  to  renuiiu 
among  them. 

One  night,  when  all  were  buried  iu  sl<'ep,  they  were  roused 
by  the  tramp  of  liorsemen.  The  Wall  Aben  Ilabib,  who.  lik.' 
all  the  governors  of  ilistant  posts,  had  received  orders  from  th,' 
caliph  to  be  on  the  watch  for  the  fugitive  prince,  had  heard 
that  a  young  man.  answering  the  de-si-riplion,  had  entered  the 
province  alone,  from  the  frontiers  of  Egypt,  on  a  steed  worn 
down  by  travel.  He  had  immeiUately  sent  forth  horsemen  in 
his  pursuit,  with  orders  to  bring  him  to  hiui  dead  or  alive.  Tlie 
emissaries  of  the  Wall  had  traced  him  to  nis  resting-place,  and 
demanded  of  the  Arabs  whether  a  young  man,  a  stianger  from 
Syria,  did  not  sojourn  among  their  tribe.  The  Hedouins  knew 
by  the  description  that  the  stranger  must  be  their  guest,  and 
feared  some  evil  was  intended  him.  "Such  a  youth."  said 
they,  "■  has  intleed  sojourned  among  us  :  but  he  lias  gone,  with 
some  of  oar  young  loen,  to  a  distant  valley,  to  hunt  tli"  lion." 
The  emissaries  inquired  the  way  to  the  i)lace,  and  hastened  ou 
to  surprise  their  expected  prey. 

The  Bedouins  repaired  to  Abderahman,  who  was  still  sleep- 
ing. "If  thou  hast  aught  to  fear  from  man  in  power,"  said 
they,  "  arise  and  Hy  ;  for  the  horsemen  of  the  Wali  are  in  quest 
of  thee  !  We  have  sent  them  off  for  a  time  on  a  wrong  errand, 
but  they  will  soon  return." 

"  Alas  !  whither  shall  I  fly  I  "  cried  the  unhappy  prince  ;  "  my 
enemies  hunt  me  like  the  ostrich  of  tlie  desert,  'lliey  folUnv 
me  like  the  wind,  and  allow  me  neither  safety  nor  rei)ose  I  " 

Six  of  the  bravest  youths  of  the  tribe  stepped  forward.  '•  We 
have  steeds,"  said  they,  "■  that  can  outstrip  the  wind,  and  hands 
that  can  hurl  the  javelin.  We  will  accoinpany  thee  in  tiiy  Miglil, 
and  will  light  by  thy  side  while  life  lasts,  and  we  have  wea|)onb 
to  wield." 

Abderahman  embraced  them  with  tears  of  gratitude.  They 
mounted  their  steeds,  and  made  for  the  most  lonely  parts  of 
the  desert.  By  the  faint  light  of  the  stars,  they  })assed  through 
dreary  wastes,  and  over  hills  of  sand.  The  lion  roared,  and 
the  hyena  howled  unheeded,  for  they  lied  from  man,  more  cruel 
and  relentless,  when  in  pursuit  of  blood,  than  the  savage  beasts 
of  the  desert. 

At  sunrise  they  paused  to  refresh  themselves  beside  a  scanty 
veil,  surrounded  by  a  few  palm-trees.  One  of  the  young  vVrahs 
ctitibed  a  tree,  and  looked  iu  every  direction,  but  not  a  horse- 
man  ,vas  to  be  seen. 


young  men, 
11  to  rt'iTiaiu 

wore  roused 

>.  who,  iik,. 

t'l'S  fioui  tllo 


liiul    he; 


on  torn!  the 

.stei'd  vvoiii 

lorsenu'u  in 

nlivo.     The 

ji-ph'icc,  and 

trjinjiiM-  from 

(hjuiiis  knew 

r  i,nie.st,  and 

,-oulli,"  said 

s  'j^onv.  with 

i  th«  lion." 

hiistcnod  on 

is  still  slt'cp- 

lovvor,"  said 

I  are  in  <jut'st 

rong  (.'rraud, 

)riiu'C' ;  "  my 
They  follow 
cposo  I  " 
ward.  "Wo 
(I,  and  hands 
in  thy  liigiit, 
avc  weapons 

tudo.  They 
lely  parts  of 
ssc'd  through 
roared,  and 
,  more  cruel 
iviige  beasts 

ide  a  scanty 
young  Arahs 
Qot  a  horse- 


ABDERAUMAN. 


157 


•'  We  have  outstripped  pursuit,"  said  the  Bedouins  ;  "  whither 
shall  we  conduct  thee  ?  Where  is  thy  home  and  the  land  of  thy 
people?  " 

"Home  have  I  none!"  replied  Abderahman,  mournfully, 
"nor  family,  nor  kindred !  ^ly  native  land  is  to  me  a  land  of 
destruction,  and  my  people  seek  my  life !  " 

The  hearts  of  the  youthful  Bedouins  were  touched  with  com- 
passion at  these  words,  and  they  marvelled  that  one  so  young  and 
gentle  should  have  sufifered  such  great  sorrow  and  persecution. 

Abderahman  sat  by  the  well,  and  nnised  for  a  time.  At 
length,  breaking  silence,  "In  the  midst  of  Mauritania,"  said 
lie,  ''dwells  the  tribe  of  Zoneta.  My  mother  was  of  that  tril)e  ; 
and  perhaps  when  her  son  presents  himself,  a  persecuted  wan- 
derer, at  their  door,  they  will  not  turn  him  from  the  threshold." 

"  The  Zenetes,"  replied  the  Bedouins,  "  are  among  the  bravest 
and  most  hospitable  of  the  people  of  Africa.  Never  did  the 
unfortunate  seek  refuge  among  them  in  vain,  nor  was  the 
stranger  repulsed  from  their  door."  So  they  mounted  their 
steeds  with  renewed  spirits,  and  journeyed  with  all  speed  to 
Tuhart,  the  cai)ital  of  the  Zenetes. 

When  AlKlerahmau  entered  the  place,  followed  by  his  six 
rustic  Arabs,  all  wayworn  and  travel-stained,  his  noble  and 
majestic  demeanor  shone  through  the  simple  garb  of  a  Bedouin. 
A  crowd  gathercid  around  him,  as  he  alighted  from  his  weary 
steed.  Conliding  in  the  well-known  character  of  the  tribe,  he 
no  longer  attempted  concealment. 

"You  bchohl  before  you,"  said  ho,  "  one  of  the  proscribed 
house  of  Onieya.  I  am  that  Abderahman  upon  whose  head  a 
l)rice  has  boon  set,  and  who  has  l)een  driven  from  land  to  land. 
1  conic  to  y(iu  as  my  kindred.  My  mother  was  of  your  tribe, 
and  she  told  me  with  her  dying  breath  that  in  all  time  of  need 
I  would  (in^l  a  home  and  friends  among  the  Zenetes." 

Tin  words  of  Abderahman  went  straight  to  the  hearts  of  his 
hearers.  They  pitied  his  youth  and  his  groat  misfortunes,  while 
ihey  were  charnied  by  his  frankness,  and  by  the  manly  graces 
of  his  person.  The  tribe  was  of  a  bold  and  generous  spirit, 
and  not  to  be  awed  by  the  frown  of  power.  "  Kvil  be  upon  us 
ii.id  upon  our  children,"  said  they,  "if  we  deceive  the  trust 
thou  hast  placed  in  us  !  " 

Then  one  of  the  noblest  Xeques  took  Abderahman  to  his 
house-  ^ud  treated  him  aa  his  own  child  ;  and  the  principal  peo- 
ple of  the  tribe  strove  who  most  should  cherish  him,  and  do  iiiin 
honor ;  endeavoring  to  obliterate  by  their  kindness  the  recoUec' 
tiou  of  his  past  misfortunes. 


U 


158 


THE  CRAYON   PAPERS. 


r 


!l   ' 


AMerahma"  had  resided  some  time  among  the  hospitable 
Zenetes,  when  one  day  two  strangers,  of  venerable  appearance 
attended  by  a  small  retinue,  arrived  at  Tahart.  Tliey  f^avc 
themselves  out  as  merchants,  and  from  the  simple  style  in  which 
they  travelled,  excited  no  attention.  In  a  little  while  they 
sought  out  Abderahman,  and,  taking  him  apart:  ''Hearken," 
Haid  they,  "Abderahman,  of  the  royal  line  of  Omeya;  we  are 
ambassadors  sent  on  the  part  of  the  principal  Moslems  of  Spain, 
to  offer  thee,  not  merely  an  asylum,  for  that  thou  hast  already 
among  these  brave  Zenetes,  but  an  empire  !  Spain  is  a  prey  to 
distracting  factions,  and  can  no  longer  exist  as  a  dependence 
u{)on  a  throne  too  remote  to  watch  over  its  welfare.  It  nocrls 
to  1)0  independent  of  Asia  and  Africa,  and  to  be  under  the  gov- 
ernment of  a  good  prince,  who  shall  reside  within  it,  and  devote 
himself  entirely  to  its  prosperity  ;  a  prince  with  sufficient  title  to 
silence  all  rival  claims,  and  bring  the  warring  parties  into  unity 
and  peace  ;  and  at  the  same  time  with  sufficient  ability  and  vir- 
tue to  insure  the  welfare  of  his  dominions.  For  this  purpose 
the  eyes  of  all  the  honorable  leaders  in  Spain  have  been  turned 
to  thee,  as  a  descendant  of  the  royal  line  of  Omeya,  and  an  off- 
set from  the  same  stock  as  our  holy  prophet.  They  have  hoard 
of  thy  virtues,  and  of  thy  adniiralile  constancy  under  misfor- 
tunes ;  and  invite  thee  to  accept  the  sovereignty  of  one  of  tlie 
noblest  countries  in  the  world.  Thou  wilt  have  some  diinculties 
to  encounter  from  hostile  men  ;  but  thou  wilt  have  on  tliy  side 
the  bravest  captains  that  have  signalized  themselves  in  the  con- 
quest of  the  unbelievers." 

The  ambassadors  ceased,  and  Abderahman  remained  for  a 
time  lost  in  wonder  and  admiration.  "God  is  great!"  ox- 
claimed  he,  at  length  ;  "  there  is  but  one  God,  who  is  God,  and 
Mahomet  is  his  prophet!  Illustrious  ambassadors,  you  have  put 
new  life  into  my  soul,  for  you  have  shown  me  something  to  live 
for.  In  the  few  years  that  I  have  lived,  troubles  and  sorrows 
have  been  heaped  upon  my  head,  and  I  have  become  inured  to 
hardships  and  alarms.  Since  it  is  the  wish  of  the  valiant  Mos- 
lems of  Spain,  I  am  willing  to  become  their  leader  and  defender, 
and  devote  myself  to  their  cause,  be  it  happy  or  disastrous." 

The  ambassadors  now  cautioned  him  to  be  silent  as  to  their 
errand,  and  to  depart  secretly  for  Spain.  "The  sea-hoard  of 
Africa,"  said  they,  "swarms  with  your  enemies,  and  a  power- 
ful faction  in  Spain  would  intercept  you  on  landing,  did  they 
know  your  name  and  rank,  and  the  object  of  your  coming." 

But  Abderahman  replied  :  "  I  have  been  cherished  in  adversity 
by  these  brave   Zenetes  ;    I  have  been  protected  and  honored 


■  I 


le  hospitable 

!  appearance, 

They  r;avc 

tyle  in  which 
e  while  they 
Hearken," 
neya;  we  are 
iMTis  of  Spain, 

h:ist  already 
n  is  a  prey  to 
[I  dependence 
re.  It  needs 
nder  tlie  frov- 
it,  and  devote 
fflcient  title  to 
;ios  into  unity 
bility  and  vir- 

this  purpose 
e  been  turned 
'a,  and  an  off- 
?y  have  heard 
under  niisfor- 
of  one  of  tiie 
•me  difFiculties 
>'e  on  thy  side 
'es  in  the  eon- 

MTiained  for  a 
great ! ' '  ex- 
10  is  God,  and 
,  yon  have  put 
iiething  to  live 
>  and  sorrows 
ome  iniued  to 
!  valiant  Mos- 
und  defender, 
lisastrous." 
!nt  as  to  their 
se:i-l)oard  of 
and  a  power- 
ling,  did  they 
r  coming." 
?d  in  adversity 
and  honored 


ABDERAHMAV. 


169 


by  them,  when  a  price  was  set  upon  my  head,  and  to  harbor  me 
was  great  peril.  How  can  I  keep  ray  good  fortune  from  my 
benefactors,  and  desert  their  hospitable  roofs  in  silence?  He 
is  unworthy  of  friendship,  who  withholds  confidence  from  his 
friend." 

Ciiarmed  with  the  generosity  of  his  feelings,  the  ambassadors 
tnade  no  opposition  to  his  wishes.  The  Zenetcs  proved  them- 
selves worthy  of  his  confidence.  They  hailed  with  joy  the 
great  change  in  his  fortunes.  The  warriqrs  and  the  young 
men  pressed  forward  to  follow,  and  aid  them  with  horse  and 
weapon;  "for  the  honor  of  a  noble  house  and  family,"  said 
they,  "  can  be  maintained  only  by  lances  and  horsemen."  In 
a  few  days  he  set  forth,  with  the  ambassadors,  at  the  head  of 
nearly  a  thousand  horsemen,  skilled  in  war,  and  exercised  in 
the  desert,  and  a  large  body  of  infantry,  armed  with  lances. 
The  venerable  Xeque,  with  whom  he  had  resided,  blessed  him, 
and  shed  tears  over  him  at  parting,  as  though  he  liad  been  his 
own  child  ;  and  when  the  youth  passed  over  the  threshold,  the 
house  was  filled  with  lamentations. 

Abderahman  reached  Spain  in  safety,  and  landed  at  Almane- 
with  his  little  band  of  warlike  Zenetes.     Spain  was  at  that 


car 


time  in  a  state  of  great  confusion.      Upward  of  forty  years 
had  elapsed  since  the  conquest.     The  civil  wars  in  Syria  and 
Egypt  had  prevented  the  main  government  at  Damascus  from 
exercising  control  over  this  distant  and  recently  acquired  ter- 
ritoiy.     Kvery   Moslem    commander   considered   the   town   or 
province  committed  to  his  charge,  an  alisolute  property ;  and 
accordingly  exercised    the   most   arbitrary   extortions.     These 
excesses  at  length  l)ecame  insupportable,  and,  at  a  convocation 
of  many  of  the  principal  leaders,  it  was  determined,  as  a  means 
to  end  these  dissensions,  to  unite  all  the  Moslem  provinces  of 
Spain  under  one  Emir,  or  General  Governor.     Yusuf  el  Fehri, 
an  ancient   man,   of   honorable   lineage,  was  chosen   for  this 
station.     He  began  his  reign  with  policy,  and  endeavored  to 
conciliate   all   parties ;    but    the  distribution    of    offices    soon 
created  powerful  enemies  among  the  disappointed  leaders.     A 
civil  war  was  the  consequence,  and  Spain  was  deluged  with 
blood.     The  troops   of  both  parties  burned  and  ravaged  and 
laid   every  thing  waste,  to   distress   their  antagonists ;  the  vil- 
lages were  abandoned    by  their   inhabitants,  who  fled   to  the 
cities  for  refuge  ;  and  flourishing  towns  disappeared  from  the 
face   of    the  earth,  or  remained   mere   heaps  of    rubbisli   an(i 
asiies.     At  the  time  of  the  landing  of  Abderahman  in  Spain,  the 
old  Emir  Yusuf  had  obtained  a  signal  victory.     He  bad  cap- 


.'  (- 


160 


THE  CRAYON   PAPERS. 


•t-  1         ! 


i:      ! 


1  •: 


tured  Baragossa,  in  which  was  Amer  hen  Amru,  his  piinc'm' 
enemy,  together  with  iiis  son  and  secretary.  Loading  his  piis. 
oners  with  cliains,  and  putting  them  on  camels,  he  sot  out  in 
triumpli  for  Cordova,  considering  liimself  secure  in  tlie  abso- 
lute domination  of  Spain. 

He  had  halted  one  day  in  a  valley  called  Wadaranihla.  and 
was  reposing  with  his  family  in  his  pavilion,  while  his  people 
and  the  prisoners  made  a  repast  in  the  open  air.  In  the  midst 
of  his  repose,  his  confidential  adherent  and  general,  the  Wali 
Samael,  galloped  into  the  camp  covered  with  dust,  and  ex- 
hausted with  fatigue.  lie  1  nought  tidings  of  the  arrival  of 
Abderahman,  and  that  the  whole  sea-board  was  flocking  to  his 
standard.  Messenger  after  messenger  came  hurrying  into  the 
camp,  confirming  the  fearful  tidings,  and  adding  that  this 
descendant  of  the  Onieyas  had  secretly  been  invited  to  Spain 
by  Amru  and  his  followers.  Ynsuf  waited  not  to  ascertain  the 
truth  of  this  accusation.  Giving  way  to  a  transport  of  fury, 
he  ordered  that  Amru,  his  son  and  secretary,  should  be  cut  to 
pieces.  His  commands  were  instantly  executed.  "  And  this 
cruelty,"  says  the  Arabian  chronicler,  "lost  him  the  favor  of 
Allah  ;  for  from  that  time,  success  deserted  his  standard." 

Abderahman  had  indewl  been  hailed  with  joy  on  his  landing 
in  Spain.  The  old  people  hoped  to  find  tranquillity  under  the 
sway  of  one  supreme  chieftain,  descended  from  their  ancient 
caliphs  ;  the  young  men  were  rejoiced  to  have  a  youthful  warrior 
to  lead  them  on  to  victories ;  and  the  populace,  charmed  with 
his  freshness  and  manly  beauty,  his  majestic  yet  gracious  and 
affable  demeanor,  shouted :  "  Long  live  Abderahman  hen 
Moavia  Meramamolir  of  Spain  !  " 

In  a  few  days  the  youthful  sovereign  saw  himself  at  the  head 
of  more  than  twenty  thousand  men,  from  the  neighborhood  of 
Elvira,  Alraeria,  Malaga,  Xeres,  and  Sidonia.  Fair  Seville 
threw  open  its  gates  at  his  approach,  and  celebrated  his  arrival 
with  public  rejoicings.  He  continued  his  march  into  the  coun- 
try, vanquished  one  of  the  sons  of  Yusuf  before  the  gates  of 
Cordova,  and  obliged  him  to  take  refuge  within  its  walls,  where 
he  held  him  in  close  siege.  Hearing,  however,  of  the  approach 
of  Yusuf,  the  father,  with  a  powerful  army,  he  divided  his 
forces,  and  leaving  ten  thousand  men  to  press  the  siege,  he 
hastened  with  the  other  ten  to  meet  the  coming  foe. 

Yusuf  had  indeed  mustered  a  formidal)le  force,  from  the  east 
and  south  of  Spain,  and  accompanied  by  his  veteran  general, 
Samael,  came  with  confident  boasting  to  drive  this  intruder 
from  the  land.     His  confidence  increased  on  beholding  the  small 


liis  priiic'!-!;-' 
ling  his  pii:<. 
le  sot  out  ill 
in  tiio  ahso- 

!iranil)la,  and 
«'  his  people 
In  the  niidat 
lal,  tlie  Wali 
list,  and  ex- 
ile arrival  of 
(okinj^  to  hia 

ig  into  the 
ng  that  this 
ited  to  Spain 
ascertain  the 
)ort  of  fury, 
lid  he  out  to 

"  And  this 
the  favor  of 
ndard." 
1  his  landing 
ity  under  the 
their  ancient 
ithful  warrior 
charmed  with 
gracious  and 
ralunan    hen 

f  at  the  head 

ghborhood  of 

Fair  Seville 

id  his  arrival 

nto  the  coun- 

the  gates  of 

walls,  where 

the  approach 

I  divided  his 


the 


siege, 


he 


from  the  east 
?ran  general, 
;his  intruder 
liug  the  small 


AUDERAIIMAN. 


161 


army  of  Abderahman.     Turning  to  Samael,  he  repeated,  with 
a  scornful  sneer,  a  verse  front   m  Arabian  poetess,  which  says : 

"How  hard  is  our  lot!  We  come,  a  thirsty  multitude,  and 
lo !  but  this  cup  of  water  to  share  among  us  !  " 

There  was  indeed  a  fearful  odds.  On  the  one  side  were  two 
veteran  generals,  grown  gray  in  victory,  with  a  mighty  host  of 
warriors,  seasoned  in  the  wars  of  Spain.  On  the  other  side  was 
a  more  youth,  scarce  attained  to  iiiiiuhood,  with  a  hasty  levy  of 
half-disciplined  troops  ;  but  the  youth  was  a  i)rincc,  flushed  with 
hope,  and  aspiring  after  fame  and  empire  ;  and  surrounded  by  a 
devoted  band  of  warriors  from  Africa,  whose  example  infused 
desperate  zeal  into  the  little  army. 

The  encounter  took  place  at  daybreak.  The  impetuous  valor 
of  the  Zenetes  carried  every  thing  before  it.  The  cavalry  of 
Yusuf  was  broken,  and  driven  back  upon  the  infantry,  and  be- 
fore noon  the  whole  host  was  put  to  headlong  flight.  Yusuf  and 
Samael  were  borne  along  in  the  torrent  of  the  fugitives,  raging 
nnd  storming,  and  making  ineffectual  efforts  to  rally  them. 
Tlioy  were  separated  widely  in  the  confusion  of  the  llight,  one 
taking  refuge  in  the  Algarves,  the  other  in  the  kingdom  of 
Murcia.  They  afterward  rallied,  reunited  their  forces,  and  made 
another  desperate  stand  near  to  Aimunecar.  The  liattle  was  ob- 
stinate and  bloody,  but  they  were  again  defeated,  and  driven, 
with  a  handful  of  followers,  to  take  refuge  in  the  rugged  moun- 
tains adjacent  to  Elvira. 

Tlie  spirit  of  the  veteran  Samael  gave  way  before  these  fear- 
ful reverses.  "  In  vain,  O  Yusuf!  "  said  he.  "  do  we  contend 
with  the  prosperous  star  of  this  youthful  conqueror :  the  will  of 
Allah  be  done  !  Let  us  submit  to  our  fate,  and  sue  for  favor- 
able terms,  while  we  have  yet  the  means  of  capitulation." 

It  was  a  hard  trial  for  the  proud  spirit  of  Y'usuf,  that  had 
once  aspired  to  uncontrolled  sway ;  but  he  was  compelled  to 
capitulate.  Abderahman  was  as  generous  as  brave.  He  granted 
tlio  two  gray-headed  general?  the  most  honorable  conditions, 
and  even  took  the  veteran  Samael  into  favor,  employing  him,  as 
a  mark  of  confidence,  to  visit  the  eastern  provinces  of  Spain, 
and  restore  them  to  tranquillity.  Ynsuf,  having  delivered  up 
Elvira  and  Granada  and  complied  with  other  articles  of  his 
capitulation,  was  permitted  to  retire  to  Murcia,  and  rejoin  his 
sou  Muhamad.  A  general  amnesty  to  all  chiefs  and  soldiers 
who  should  yield  up  their  strongholds,  and  lay  down  their  arms, 
completed  the  triumph  of  Abderahman,  and  brought  all  hearts 
into  obedience. 

Thus  terminated  this  severe  struggle  for  the  domination  of 


P 


i, 


) 


I   ! 


I 


-■ 


i*^ 


!    Ill      '1   ;  • 


i.  1  I 


>:     ii      .    ij 


162 


THE  CRAYON   rAPERfi. 


Spain;  and  thus  the  illustrious  family  of  Omoya,  after  haviti'r 
been  cast  down  and  almost  extorminatt'd  in  the  East,  took  lu^w 
root,  and  sprang  forth  prosperously  in  tlic  West. 

Wherever  Ahderahman  appeared,  he  wjh  received  with  nip- 
turous  acclamations.  As  he  rode  through  tlie  cities,  the  popn- 
lace  rent  the  air  with  shouts  of  joy ;  the  stately  palaces  were 
crowded  with  spectators,  eager  to  gain  a  sight  of  his  graceful 
form  and  beaming  countenance ;  and  when  they  beheld  the 
mingled  majesty  and  benignity  of  their  new  monarch,  and  tlio 
sweetness  and  gentleness  of  his  whole  conduct,  they  extolled 
him  as  yomething  more  than  mortal ;  as  a  beneficent  genius,  went 
for  the  happiness  of  Spain. 

In  the  interval  of  [)eacc  which  now  succeeded,  Abderulinian 
occupied  himself  in  promoting  the  useful  and  elegant  arts,  and 
in  introducing  into  Spain  the  refinements  of  the  F^ast.  Con- 
sidering the  building  and  ornamenting  of  cities  as  ainon^  llu' 
noblest  employments  of  the  tranquil  hours  of  princes,  he  lu;- 
stowed  great  pains  upon  beautifying  the  city  of  Cordova  and 
its  environs.  He  reconstructed  banks  and  dykes,  to  keep  the 
Guadalquiver  from  overflowing  its  }K)rtlers,  antl  on  the  vast  ter- 
races thus  formed,  he  planted  delightful  gardens.  In  the  midst 
of  these,  he  erected  a  lofty  tower,  commanding  a  view  of  the 
vast  and  fruitful  valley,  enlivened  by  the  windings  of  tin!  river. 
In  this  tower  would  he  pass  hours  of  meditation,  gazing  on  t!ie 
8oft  and  varied  landscape,  and  inhaling  the  bland  and  haliiiy 
airs  of  that  delightful  region.  At  such  times,  his  tlio(iii,hls 
would  recur  to  the  past,  and  the  misfortunes  of  his  youth ;  the 
massacre  of  his  family  would  rise  to  view,  mingled  with  lender 
recollections  of  his  native  country,  from  which  he  was  exiled. 
In  these  melancholy  musings  he  would  sit  with  his  eyes  (ixed 
upon  a  palm-tree  which  he  had  planted  in  the  midst  of  his  gar- 
den. It  is  said  to  have  l)een  the  lirst  ever  planted  In  Spain,  and 
to  have  been  the  parent-stock  of  all  the  palm-trees  which  Liraee 
the  southern  provinces  of  the  peninsula.  The  heart  of  Alider- 
ahman  yearned  tow;.rd  this  tree;  it  was  the  otTspring  of  his 
native  country,  and  like  him,  an  exile.  In  one  of  his  moods  of 
tenderness,  he  composed  verses  upon  it.  which  have  sinee  he- 
come  famous  throughout  the  world.  Tl'.e  following  is  a  rude 
but  literal  translation  : 

"  Beauteous  Palm  !  thou  also  wert  hithijr  brought  a  stranger: 
but  thy  roots  have  found  a  kindly  soil,  thy  head  is  lifted  to  tiie 
skies,  and  the  sweet  airs  of  Algarve  fondle  and  kiss  thy  brant  lies. 

"Thou  hast  known,  like  me,  the  storms  of  adverse  fortune 
Bitter  tears  wouldst   thou  shed,   couldst  thou  feel   my  woeii. 


'ij't 


ABDERAHMAN. 


163 


iflcr  having 
t,  took  new 

(1  Willi  rap. 
1,  the  popii- 
ahifcs  were 
ills  <,M'accf'iil 
ht'iu'hl  the 
i^In  iind  tlie 
iu'y  extolled 
j^enius,  sent 

fVlxh'nihnian 
.lit  art!>,  and 
East.  Coii- 
1  amon<i'  the 
nces,  lie  he- 
Jor(h)va  anil 
to  keej)  the 
Jie  vast  ter- 
In  tlie  midst 
view  of  llie 
of  tlic  river, 
iziiif;;  on  the 
1  ami  lialniy 
lii.s  tliotn>lils 
5  youth ;  the 
,  with  tender 
was  exiled, 
s  eyes  fixed 
;  of  his  i^ar- 
in  Spain,  and 
which  liraee 
rt  of  Alider- 
;i)riu,<j  of  his 
lis  inoods  of 
ve  since  he- 
ig  is  a  nuh 

',  a  .stranner : 
lifted   to  tlio 
,hy  hraneiies. 
ci'.se  fortnne 
il    my  wuL'si. 


Repoatod  griefs  have  overwhelmed  me.  "With  early  tea-s  I  be- 
dewed the  palms  on  the  hanks  of  the  Euphrr^i-s ;  but  neither 
tree  nor  river  heeded  my  sorrows,  when  driven  by  cruel  fate, 
and  the  ferocious  Aboul  Abbtis,  from  the  scenes  of  my  child- 
hood and  the  sweet  ol)jects  of  my  affection. 

''To  thee  no  remembrivnce  remains  of  my  beloved  country ; 
I,  unlia[)py  !  can  never  recall  it  without  tears." 

The  fjcnerosity  of  Abderahman  to  his  vanquished  foes  was 
destined  to  be  abused.  The  veteran  Yusuf,  in  visitinj^  certain 
of  the  cities  which  he  had  surrendered,  found  himself  surrounded 
hy  zeahnis  partisans,  ready  to  peril  life  in  his  service.  The  love 
of  coniniaud  revived  in  his  bosom,  and  he  repented  the  facility 
with  wlii(di  he  hud  suffeied  himself  to  be  persuaded  to  submis- 
sion. Flushed  with  new  hopes  of  success,  he  caused  arms  to 
he  secretly  collected,  and  deposited  in  various  villages,  most 
zealous  in  their  professions  of  devotion,  and  raising  a  considera- 
))le  body  of  troo[)s,  seized  upon  the  castle  of  Almodovar.  The 
rash  rebellion  was  short-lived.  At  the  first  appearance  of  an 
army  sent  by  Abderahman,  and  commanded  by  Abdelmelfc  , 
governor  of  Seville,  the  villages  which  had  so  recently  professed 
loyalty  to  Yusuf,  hastened  to  declare  their  attachment  to  the 
monarch,  and  to  give  up  the  concealed  arms.  Almodovar  was 
soon  retaken,  and  Yusuf,  driven  to  the  environs  of  Lorea,  was 
surrounded  by  the  cavalry  of  Abdelmelee.  The  veteran  endeav- 
ored to  cut  a  passage  through  the  enemy,  but  after  fighting  with 
desperate  fury,  ainl  with  a  force  of  arm  incredible  in  one  of  his 
age,  he  fell  i)cneath  blows  from  weapons  of  all  kinds,  so  that 
after  the  battle  his  body  could  scarcely  be  recognized,  so  numer- 
ous were  the  wounds.  His  head  was  cut  off  and  sent  to  Cor- 
dova, where  it  was  placed  in  an  iron  cage,  over  the  gate  of  the 
city. 

The  old  lion  was  dead,  but  his  whelps  survived.  Yusuf  had 
left  three  sons,  who  inherited  his  warlike  spirit,  and  were  eager 
to  revenge  his  death.  Collecting  a  number  of  the  scattered 
adliereiits  of  their  house,  they  surprised  and  seized  upon  Toledo, 
dnring  the  absence  of  Temam,  its  Wall  or  commander.  In  this 
old  warrior  city,  built  u[)on  a  rock,  and  almost  surrounded  hy 
the  Tagus,  they  set  up  a  kind  of  robber  hold,  scouring  the  sur- 
rounding country  levying  tribute,  seizing  upon  horses,  and 
compelling  the  peasantry  to  join  their  standard.  Every  day 
cavalcades  of  horses  and  mules,  laden  with  spoil,  with  flocks  of 
sheep  and  droves  of  cattle,  came  pouring  over  the  bridges  on 
eituer  side  of  the  city,  and  thronging  in  at  the  gates,  the  plunder 
of  the  surrounding  country.     Those  of  the  inhabitants  who  were 


r  r 


164 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


mi 


i  f 


t  J  * 


still  loyal  to  Abderahman  dared  not  lift  up  their  voices,  for  men 
of  th;»  sword  bore  sway.  At  length  one  day,  when  the  sons  of 
Yusut',  with  their  choicest  troops,  were  out  on  a  maraud,  the 
watchmen  on  the  towers  gave  the  alarm.  A  troop  of  scattered 
horsemen  were  spurring  wildly  toward  the  gates.  The  banners 
of  the  sons  of  Yusuf  were  descried.  Two  of  them  spurred  into 
the  city,  followed  by  a  handful  of  warriors,  covered  with  con- 
fusion and  dismay.  They  had  been  encountered  and  defcatod 
by  the  Wall  Temam,  and  one  of  the  brothers  had  been  skiiu. 

The  gatee  were  secured  in  all  haste,  and  the  walls  wore 
scarcely  manned,  when  Temam  appeared  before  them  with  his 
troops,  and  summoned  the  city  to  surrender.  A  great  internal 
commotion  ensued  between  the  loyalists  and  the  insurgents ; 
the  latter,  however,  had  weapons  in  their  hands,  and  prevailed ; 
and  for  several  days,  trusting  to  the  strength  of  their  rock-built 
fortress,  tliey  set  the  Wall  at  defiance.  At  length  some  of  the 
loyal  inhabitants  of  Toledo,  who  knew  all  its  secret  and  subter- 
raneous passages,  some  of  which,  if  chroniclers  may  be  believed, 
have  existed  since  the  days  of  Hercules,  if  not  of  Tubal  Cain, 
introduced  Temam  and  a  chosen  baud  of  his  warriors  into  the 
very  centre  of  the  city,  where  they  suddenly  appeared  as  if  by 
magic.  A  panic  seized  upon  the  insurgents.  Some  sought 
safety  in  submission,  some  in  concealment,  some  in  flight. 
Casim,  one  of  the  sons  of  Yusuf,  escaped  in  disguise ;  the 
youngest,  unharmed,  was  taken,  and  was  sent  captive  to  the 
king,  accompanied  by  the  head  of  his  brother,  who  had  been 
slain  in  battle. 

When  Abderahman  l)eheld  the  youth  laden  with  chains,  he 
remembered  his  own  sufferings  in  his  early  days,  and  had  com- 
passion on  him  ;  but,  to  prevent  him  from  doing  further  mis- 
chief, he  imi)risoned  him  in  a  tower  of  the  wall  of  Cordova. 

In  the  mean  time  Casim,  who  had  escaped,  managed  to  raise 
another  band  of  warriors.  Spain,  in  all  ages  a  guerilla  countrv. 
prone  to  partisan  warfare  and  petty  maraud,  was  at  that  tiim- 
infested  by  bands  of  licentious  troops,  who  had  sprung  up  in 
the  civil  contests ;  their  only  object  pillage,  their  only  depemi- 
ence  the  sword,  and  ready  to  Hock  to  any  new  and  desperate 
standard,  that  {)romised  the  greatest  license.  With  a  ruflian 
force  thus  levied,  Casim  scoured  the  country,  took  Sidonia  by 
storm,  and  surprised  Seville  while  in  a  state  of  unsuspecting 
security. 

Abderahman  put  himself  at  the  head  of  his  faith^'ul  Zenetes 
and  took  the  field  in  person.  By  the  rapidity  of  his  movements, 
the  rebels  were  defeated,  Sidonia  and  Seville  speedily  retaken, 


!8,  for  men 
he  sons  of 
araud,  the 

scattered 
he  banners 
)urred  into 

with  con- 

d  defeated 

n  shiiu. 

walls  were 

m  with  his 

!at  internal 

nsurgents; 

prevailed ; 

•  roek-built 

)me  of  the 

md  siibter- 

>e  believed, 

'ubal  Cain, 

)rs  into  the 

lid  as  if  by 

me  sought 

in  flight, 
[guise ;  the 
tive  to  the 
)  had  been 

chains,  he 
d  had  coin- 
urther  niis- 
rdova. 
;ed  to  raise 
la  countrv. 
t  that  time 
•ung  up  in 
ily  depend- 
desperate 
li  a  rutlian 
Sidonia  bj. 
isuspeetiug 

'ul  Zenetes 
lovemeuts, 
ly  retaken, 


audehauman. 


16c 


and  Casim  was  nnade  prisoner.  The  generosity  of  Abderahman 
was  again  exhibited  toward  this  unfortunate  son  of  Yusuf.  He 
spared  his  life,  and  sent  him  to  be  confined  in  a  tower  at  Toledo. 

The  veteran  Saraael  had  taken  no  part  in  these  insurrections, 
but  had  attended  faithfully  to  the  affairs  intrusted  to  him  by 
Abderahman.  The  death  of  his  old  frienJ  and  colleague,  Yusuf, 
however,  and  the  subsequent  disasters  of  his  family,  filled  him 
with  despondency.  Fearing  the  inconstancy  of  fortune,  and  the 
dangers  incident  to  public  employ,  he  entreated  the  king  to  be 
permitted  to  retire  to  his  house  in  Seguenza,  and  indulge  a 
privacy  and  repose  suited  to  liis  advanced  age.  His  prayer  was 
granted.  The  veteran  laid  by  his  arms,  battered  in  a  thousand 
conflicts  ;  hung  his  sword  and  lance  against  the  wall,  and,  sur- 
rounded by  a  few  friends,  gave  himself  up  apparently  to  the 
sweets  of  quiet  and  unambitious  leisure. 

Who  can  count,  however,  upon  the  tranquil  content  of  a  heart 
nurtured  amid  the  storms  of  war  and  ambition !  Under  the 
ashes  of  this  outward  humility  were  glowing  the  coals  of  faction. 
In  his  seemingly  philosophical  retirement,  Samael  was  concert- 
ing with  his  friends  new  treason  against  Abderahman.  His 
plot  was  discovered ;  his  house  was  suddenly  surrounded  by 
troops ;  and  he  was  conveyed  to  a  tower  at  Toledo,  where,  in 
the  course  of  a  few  mouths,  he  died  in  captivity. 

The  magnanimity  of  Abderahman  was  again  put  to  the  proof, 
by  a  new  insurrection  at  Toledo.  Hixem  beu  Adra,  a  relation 
of  Yusuf,  seized  upon  the  Alcazar,  or  citadel,  slew  several  of 
the  royal  adherents  of  the  king,  liberated  Casim  from  his  tower, 
and,  summoning  all  the  banditti  of  the  country,  soon  mustered 
a  force  of  ten  thousand  men.  Abderahman  was  quickly  before 
the  walls  of  Toledo,  with  the  troops  of  Cordova  and  his  devoted 
Zenetes.  The  rebels  were  brought  to  terms,  and  surrendered 
the  city  on  promise  of  general  pardon,  which  was  extended 
even  to  Hixem  and  Casim.  When  the  chieftains  saw  Hixem 
and  his  principal  confederates  in  the  power  of  Abderahman, 
they  advised  him  to  put  them  all  to  death.  "  A  promise  given 
to  traitors  and  rebels,"  said  they,  "is  not  binding,  when  it  is 
to  the  interest  of  the  state  that  it  should  be  broken." 

"No!"  replied  Abderahman,  "if  the  safety  of  my  throne 
were  at  stake,  1  would  not  break  my  word."  So  saying,  he 
confirmed  the  amnesty,  and  granted  Hixem  ben  Adra  a  worth- 
less life,  to  be  employed  in  farther  treason. 

Scarcely  had  Abderahman  returned  from  this  expedition,  when 
a  powerful  army,  sent  by  the  caliph,  lauded  from  Africa  on  th<.' 
coast  of  the  Akarves.     The  commander,  Aly  beu 


■  «  3i  !     1  f 

i  Vi  ; 

'^  tf  • 


ij 


m  I 


Mogueth. 


166 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


i. 


11  1 


?i;  1      i' 


1     i 


Emir  of  Cairvan,  elevated  a  rich  banner  which  he  had  received 
from  tlie  hands  of  the  caliph.  Wherever  he  went,  he  ordered 
the  caliph  of  the  East  to  be  proclaimed  by  sound  of  trumpet, 
denouncing  Abderahman  as  a  usurper,  the  vagrant  member  of  a 
family  proscribed  and  execrated  in  all  the  mosques  of  the  East. 

One  of  the  first  to  join  his  standard  was  Hixen^  ben  Adra,  so 
recently  pardoned  by  Abderahiran.  He  seized  up*. n  the  citadel 
of  Toledo,  and  repairing  to  the  caiap  of  Aly,  offered  to  deliver 
the  city  into  his  hands. 

Abderahman,  us  bold  in  war  as  he  was  gentle  in  peace,  took 
the  field  with  his  wonted  promptness ;  overthrew  his  enemies, 
with  great  slaughter,  drove  some  to  the  sea-coast  to  regain  their 
ships,  and  others  to  the  mountains.  The  body  of  Aly  was 
iound  on  the  field  of  battle.  Abderahman  caused  the  head  to 
be  struck  off,  and  conveyed  to  Cairvan,  where  it  was  atlixed  at 
night  to  a  column  in  the  public  square,  with  this  inrcription  : 
"Thus  Abderahman,  the  descendant  of  tiie  Omeyas,  punisiies 
the  rash  and  arrogant."  Hixom  ben  Adra  escaped  from  the 
field  of  battle,  and  excited  farther  troubles,  but  was  eventually 
captured  by  Alxlelmelee,  who  ordered  his  head  to  be  struck  off 
on  the  spot,  lest  he  should  again  be  spared,  through  the  wonted 
clemency  of  Abderahman. 

Notwithstanding  these  signal  triumphs,  the  reign  of  Abderah- 
man was  disturbed  by  further  insurrections,  an«!  by  another 
descent  from  Africa,  but  he  was  victorious  over  them  all ; 
striking  the  roots  of  his  power  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  hiiid. 
Under  his  sway,  the  government  of  Spain  became  more  regular 
and  consolidated,  and  acquired  an  independence  of  the  empire  of 
the  East.  The  caliph  continued  to  be  considered  as  first  pontift' 
and  chief  of  the  religion,  but  he  ceased  to  have  any  temporal 
power  over  Spain. 

Having  again  an  interval  of  peace,  Abderahman  devoted  him- 
self to  tlie  education  of  his  children.  Suleiman,  the  eldest,  he 
ap[)ointed  Wali,  or  governor,  of  Toledo  ;  Abdallah,  the  second, 
w:v8  intrusted  with  the  command  of  Merida ;  but  the  third  sou, 
Ilixem,  was  the  delight  of  his  heart,  the  son  of  Howara,  his 
favorite  sultana,  whom  he  loved  throughout  life  with  the  utmost 
tenderness.  With  this  youth,  who  was  full  of  promise,  he  re- 
laxed from  the  fatigues  of  government ;  joining  in  his  youthful 
sports  amid  the  delightful  gardens  of  Cordova,  and  teachiiii; 
him  the  gentle  art  of  falconry,  of  which  the  king  was  so  fond 
that  he  received  the  name  of  the  Falcon  of  Coraixi. 

While  Abderahman  was  thus  indulging  in  the  gentle  propen- 
sities of  his  nature,  mischief  was  secretly  at  work.     Muhamad, 


f'\  I 


i 


ABDERAHMAN. 


167 


ad  received 
be  ordered 
if  trumpet, 

lember  of  a 

f  the  East. 

in  Adra,  so 
tbe  citadel 

d  to  deliver 

peace,  took 
s  euemies, 
egain  their 
»f  Aly  was 
the  head  to 
s  aflixed  at 
nrcri[)tiou : 
s,  punislies 
d  from  tlie 
i  eventually 
e  struck  off 
the  wonted 

f  Abderah- 
by  anotlicr 
them  all ; 
to  the  laud, 
lore  re<,nilai' 
le  empire  of 
first  pontiff 
ly  temporal 

;voted  liirn- 
i  eldest,  he 
the  second, 
third  son, 
[ovvara,  his 
the  utmost 
lise,  he  rc- 
s  youthful 
J  teach  iu(>; 
IS  so  fond 

Ic  prcpen- 
Muhamad, 


the  youngest  son  of  Yusuf,  had  been  for  .~nany  years  a  prisoner 
in  the  tower  of  Cordova.  Being  passive  and  resigned,  his 
keepers  relaxed  their  vigilance,  and  brought  him  forth  from  his 
dungeon.  He  went  groping  about,  however,  in  broad  daylight, 
as  if  still  in  the  darkness  of  his  tower.  His  guards  watched 
him  narrowly,  lest  this  should  be  a  deception,  but  were  at  length 
convinced  that  the  long  absence  of  light  had  rendered  him  blind. 
They  new  permitted  him  to  descend  frequently  to  the  lower 
chambers  of  the  tower,  and  to  sleep  there  occasionally,  during 
the  heats  of  summer.  They  even  allowed  him  to  grope  his  way 
to  the  cistern,  in  quest  of  water  for  his  ablutions. 

A  year  passed  in  this  way  without  any  thing  to  excite  "us- 
picion.  During  all  this  time,  however,  the  blindness  of  Muha- 
raad  was  entirely  a  deception  ;  and  he  was  concerting  a  plan  of 
escape,  through  the  aid  of  some  friends  of  his  father,  who  found 
means  to  visit  him  occasionally.  One  sultry  evening  in  mid- 
sunnner,  the  guards  had  gone  to  bathe  in  the  Guadalquiver, 
leaving  Muhamad  alone,  in  the  lower  chambers  of  the  tower. 
No  sooner  were  they  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  than  he  hastened 
to  a  window  of  the  staircase,  leading  down  to  the  cistern,  low- 
ered himself  as  far  as  his  arms  would  reach,  and  dropped  with- 
out injury  to  the  ground.  Plunging  into  the  Guadalquiver,  he 
swam  across  to  a  thick  grove  on  the  opposite  side,  .vhere  his 
friends  were  waiting  to  receive  him.  Here,  mounting  a  horse 
which  they  had  provided  for  an  event  of  the  kind,  he  fled 
across  the  country,  by  solitary  roads,  and  made  good  his  escape 
to  the  mountains  of  Jaeu. 

The  guardians  of  the  tower  dreaded  for  some  time  to  make 
known  his  flight  to  Abderahman.  When  at  length  it  was  told 
to  him,  he  exclaimed:  "All  is  the  work  of  eternal  wisdom;  it 
is  intended  to  teach  us  that  we  cannot  benefit  the  wicked  with- 
out injuring  the  good.  The  flight  of  that  blind  man  will  cause 
much  trouble  and  bloodshed." 

His  predictions  were  verified.  Muhamad  reared  the  standard 
of  rebellion  on  the  mountains  ;  the  seditious  and  discontented  of 
all  kinds  hastened  to  join  it,  together  with  soldiers  of  fortune, 
or  rather  wandering  banditti,  and  he  had  soon  six  thousand 
men,  well  armed,  hardy  in  habits,  and  desperate  in  character. 
His  brother  Casim  also  reappeared  about  the  same  time  in  the 
mountains  of  Rouda,  at  the  head  of  a  daring  band  that  laid  all 
the  neighboring  valleys  under  contribution. 

Abderahman  summoned  his  alcaydes  from  their  various  mili- 
tary posts,  to  assist  in  driving  the  rebels  from  their  mountain 
fastnesses  into  the  plains.     It  was  a  dangerous  and  protracted 


ji  'i 


li  j 


•i)   I      s 


1^1 


168 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


toil,  for  the  mountains  were  friglitfully  wild  and  rugged.  He 
entered  them  with  a  powerful  host,  driving  the  rebels  from 
height  to  height  and  valley  to  valley,  and  harassing  them  by  a 
galling  fire  from  thousands  of  cross-bows.  At  length  a  decisive 
battle  tooii  place  near  the  river  Guadalemar.  The  rebels  were 
signally  defeated ;  four  thousand  fell  in  action,  many  were 
drowned  in  the  river,  and  Muhamad,  with  a  few  horsemen, 
escaped  to  the  mountains  of  the  Algarves.  Here  he  was  hunted 
by  the  alcaydes  from  one  desolate  retreat  to  another ;  his  few 
followers  grew  tired  of  sharing  the  disastrous  fortunes  of  a 
fated  man  ;  one  by  one  deserted  him.  and  he  himself  dosertod 
tlie  remainder,  fearing  they  might  give  him  up,  to  purchase  their 
own  pardon. 

Lonely  and  disguised,  he  plunged  into  the  depths  of  the  for- 
ests, or  lurked  in  dens  and  caverns,  like  a  famished  wolf,  often 
easting  back  his  thoughts  with  regret  to  the  time  of  his  captivity 
in  the  gloomy  tower  of  Cordova.  Hunger  at  length  drove  him 
to  Alarcou,  at  the  risk  of  being  discovered.  Famine  and 
misery,  however,  had  so  wasted  and  changed  him,  that  he  was 
not  recognized.  He  remained  nearly  a  year  in  Alarcon,  un- 
noticed and  unknown,  yet  constantly  tormenting  himself  with 
the  dread  of  discover",  and  with  groundless  fears  of  the  von- 
geance  of  Abderahman.  Death  at  leugtli  put  an  end  to  hin 
wretchedness. 

A  milder  fate  attended  his  brother  Casim.  Being  defeated  in 
the  mountains  of  Murcia,  he  was  conducted  in  chains  to  Cor- 
dova. On  coming  into  the  presence  of  Abderahman,  his  once 
fierce  and  haughty  spirit,  broken  by  distress,  gave  way ;  lie 
threw  himself  on  the  earth,  kissed  the  dust  beneath  tlie  feet  of 
the  king,  and  implored  his  clemency.  Tlie  benignant  heart  of 
Abderahman  was  ^illed  with  melancholy,  rather  than  exultation, 
at  beholding  this  wreck  of  the  once  haughty  family  of  Yusuf  a 
euppliant  at  his  feet,  and  suing  for  mere  existence.  He  thought 
upon  the  mutability  of  fortune,  and  felt  how  insecure  are  nil  her 
favors.  He  raised  the  unhappy  Casim  from  the  earth,  ordered 
his  irons  to  be  taken  off,  and,  not  content  with  mere  forgiveness, 
treated  him  with  honor,  and  gave  him  possessions  in  Seville, 
where  he  might  live  in  state  conformable  to  the  ancient  dignity 
of  his  family.  Won  by  this  great  and  persevering  magnanim- 
ity, Casim  ever  after  remained  one  of  the  most  devoted  of  his 
subjects. 

All  the  enemies  of  Abderahman  were  at  length  subdued  ;  he 
reigned  undisputed  sovereijin  of  the  Moslems  of  Spain  ;  and  so 
benign  was  his  government,  that  every  one  blessed  the  revival 


ABDERAIIMAN. 


169 


1 


;gcd.  He 
bels  from 
them  by  a 
a  decisive 
•ebels  wore 
any  were 
horsemen, 
vas  hunted 
his  few 
tunes  of  a 
If  dnsortcd 
chase  their 

of  the  for- 
wolf,  often 
is  captivity 
drove  him 
amine  and 
hat  he  was 
arcon,  un- 
mself  with 
3f  the  ven- 
end  to  hifi 

defeated  in 
ins  to  Cov- 
in, his  once 
e  way ;  he 
tlie  feet  of 
nt  heart  of 
exultation, 
>f  Yusuf  a 
He  thought 
are  all  her 
th,  ordered 
orgiveness, 
in  Seville, 
2nt  dignity 
magnanim- 
oted  of  his 

ibdued  ;  he 
in  ;  and  so 
the  revival 


of  the  illustrious  line  of  Omeyu.  He  was  at  all  times  accessible 
to  the  humblest  of  his  subjects  :  tlie  i)<K)r  man  ever  found  in 
him  a  friend,  and  the  oppressed  a  protector.  He  improved  the 
administration  of  justice  ;  established  schools  for  pulilic  instruc- 
tion ;  encouraged  poets  and  men  of  letters,  and  cultivated  the 
sciences.  He  built  i;i*sques  in  every  city  that  he  visited;  in^ 
culcated  religion  by  example  as  well  as  by  precept;  and  cele 
bratod  all  the  festivals  prescribed  by  the  Koran,  with  the  utmost 
magnificence. 

As  a  monument  of  gratitude  to  God  for  the  prosperity  with 
which  he  had  been  favored,  he  undertook  to  erect  a  mosque  in 
his  favorite  city  of  Cordova,  that  should  rival  in  splendor  the 
great  mosque  of  Damascus,  and  excel  the  one  recently  erected 
in  Bagdad  by  the  Abbassides,  the  supplauters  of  his  family. 

It  is  said  that  he  himself  furnished  the  plan  for  this  fan:ious 
edifice,  and  even  worked  on  it,  with  his  own  hands,  one  hour 
in  each  day,  to  testify  his  zeal  and  humility  in  the  service  of 
God,  and  to  animate  his  workmen.  He  did  not  live  to  see  it 
completed,  l)ut  it  was  finished  acccnding  to  his  plans  by  his  son 
Hixem.  When  finished,  it  sur|)assed  the  most  splendid  mos(iuos 
of  the  East.  It  was  six  hundred  feet  in  length,  and  two  hun- 
dred and  fifty  in  breadth.  Within  were  twenty-eight  aisles, 
crossed  by  nineteen,  supported  by  a  thousand  and  ninety-three 
columns  of  marble.  There  were  nineteen  portals,  covered  with 
plates  of  bronze  cf  rare  workmanship.  The  principal  i)ortal 
was  covered  with  plates  of  gold.  On  the  summit  of  the  grand 
cupola  were  three  gilt  balls  surmounted  by  a  golden  pomegranate. 
At  night,  the  mosque  was  illuminateci  with  four  thousand  seven 
hundred  lamps,  and  great  sums  were  expended  in  amber  and 
aloes,  which  were  burned  as  perfumes.  The  moscpie  remains 
to  this  day,  shorn  of  its  ancient  splendor,  yet  still  one  of  the 
grandest  Moslem  intMiuments  in  Spain. 

Finding  himself  advancing  in  years,  Abderahman  assembled 
in  his  capital  of  Cordova  the  principal  governors  and  com- 
manders of  his  kingdom,  and  in  [)resenee  of  them  all,  with 
great  solemnity,  nominated  his  son  Ilixem  as  the  successor  to 
tile  throne.  All  present  made  an  oath  of  fealty  to  Abderah- 
man during  his  life,  and  to  Ilixem  after  his  death.  The  prince 
was  younger  than  his  brotliers,  Suleinnin  and  Abdallah  ;  but 
he  was  the  son  of  Ilowara,  the  tenderly  beloved  sultana  of 
Abderahman,  and  her  intluence,  ii  is  said,  gained  him  this 
preference. 

Within  a  few  months  afterwaid,  Abderahman  fell  grievously 
vick  at  Mcrida.     Kindinij  his  end  :ii)proaching.  he  summoned 


170 


TUE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


ncvi 


I    : 


! 


!  1 


in   t 


Hixem  to  his  bedside  :  ''My  son,"  siiid  he,  "  the  .angel  of  death 
is  hovering  over  ine  ;  treasure  up,  therefore,  in  thy  heiirt  this 
dying  counsel,  whieh  I  give  through  the  greut  love  I  bear  tlioc. 
Remember  that  all  empire  is  from  Clod,  who  gives  and  takes  it 
away,  aceording  to  his  pleasure.  Since  (io<i,  through  his  diviin' 
goodness,  has  given  us  regal  power  and  authority,  let  us  do  his 
holy  will,  which  is  notliing  else  than  to  do  good  to  all  men,  and 
especially  to  those  committed  to  our  protection.  Render  equal 
justice,  my  son,  to  the  rich  and  the  poor,  and  never  suffer  injus- 
tice to  be  done  within  thy  dominion,  for  it  is  the  road  to  perdi-^ 
tion.  Be  merciful  and  benignant  to  those  dependent  upon  Ihoc. 
Confide  the  government  of  thy  cities  and  provinces  to  men  of 
worth  and  experience ;  punish  without  compassion  those  minis- 
ters who  oppress  thy  people  with  exorbitant  exactions.  Pay  tiiy 
troops  punctually  ;  teach  them  to  feel  a  certainty  in  thy  prom- 
ises ;  command  them  with  gentleness  but  firmness,  and  mako 
them  in  truth  the  defenders  of  the  state,  not  its  destroyers. 
Cultivate  unceasingly  the  affections  of  thy  people,  for  in  tlieir 
good-will  consists  the  security  of  the  state,  in  their  distrust  its 
peril,  in  their  hatred  its  certain  ruin.  Protect  the  husbandmen 
who  cultivate  the  earth,  and  yield  us  necessary  sustenance ; 
never  permit  their  fields,  and  groves,  and  gardens  to  be  dis- 
turbed. Tn  a  -.vord,  act  in  such  wise  that  thy  peoi)le  may  Idess 
thee,  and  may  enjcy,  under  the  shadow  of  thy  wing,  a  secure 
and  tranquil  life.  In  this  consists  good  government ;  if  thou 
dost  practise  it,  thou  wilt  be  happy  among  thy  people,  and  re- 
nowned throughout  the  world." 

Having  given  tJiis  excellent  counsel,  the  good  king  Abderah- 
man  blessed  his  son  Hixem,  and  shortly  after  died  ;  l)eing  but 
in  the  sixtieth  year  of  his  age.  He  was  interred  with  great 
pomp  ;  but  the  highest  honors  that  distinguished  his  funeral 
were  the  tears  of  real  sorrow  shed  upoii  his  grave.  He  left 
behind  him  a  name  for  valor,  justice,  and  nuignanhnity,  :uiil 
forever  famous  as  being  the  founder  of  the  glorious  line  of  tlj- 
Ommiades  in  Spain. 


TEE    WIDOW'S  ORDEAL. 


171 


1  of  (loath 
iK'iirt  this 
Itear  tlicc. 
tl  takes  it 
liis  (liviin. 
H!^  tlo  his 
meu,  and 
kUt  equal 
ffi-'i'  iiijus- 
U)  pt'i',li> 
11)011  tliee, 
;o  iiicii  of 
ose  iiiiiiis- 
Piiy  tiiy 
thy  proiii- 
uiid  make 
lestroycvs. 
)!•  ill  thoir 
list  rust  its 
isbandmoii 
istenauct' ; 
to  be  dis- 
may ])loSS 
p,  a  secure 
it ;  if  thou 
e,  a,ud  re- 

Abderah- 
l)oiiig  but 
with  great 
lis  funeral 
.  He  left 
:inity,  and 
iue  of  th' 


THE  WIDOW'S  ORDEAL, 

OR   A   JUDICIAL   TKIAL   BY   COMBAT. 

The  world  is  daily  growing  older  and  wiser.  Its  institution^ 
vary  with  its  years,  and  mark  its  growing  wisdom  ;  and  none 
more  so  than  its  modes  of  investigating  truth,  and  ascertaining 
guilt  or  innocence.  In  its  nonage,  when  man  was  yet  a  fallible 
being,  and  doubted  the  accuracy  of  his  own  intellect,  appeals 
were  made  to  heaven  in  dark  and  doubtful  cases  of  atrocious 
accusation. 

The  accused  was  required  to  plunge  his  hand  in  boiling  oil, 
or  to  walk  across  red-hot  ploughshares,  or  to  maintain  his  inno- 
cence in  armed  light  and  listed  field,  in  person  or  by  champion. 
If  he  passed  these  ordeals  unscathed,  he  stood  acquitted,  and 
the  result  was  regarded  as  a  verdict  from  on  high. 

It  is  somewhat  remarkable  that,  in  the  gallant  age  of  cbiv- 
airy,  the  gentler  sex  oliould  have  been  most  frequently  the  sub- 
jects of  these  rude  trials  and  perilous  ordeals ;  and  that,  too, 
when  assailed  in  their  most  delicate  and  vulnerable  part  —  their 
honor. 

In  the  present  very  old  and  enlightened  age  of  the  world, 
when  the  human  intellect  is  perfectly  competent  to  the  manage- 
ment of  its  own  concerns,  and  needs  no  special  interposition  of 
heaven  in  its  aft'airs.  the  tiial  by  jury  has  superseded  these  super- 
human ordeals  ;  and  the  unanimity  of  twelve  discordant  minds 
is  necessary  to  coistitute  a  verdict.  Such  a  unanimity  would, 
at  first  sight,  appear  also  to  require  a  miracle  from  heaven  ;  but 
it  is  produced  by  a  simple  device  of  human  ingenuity.  The 
twelve  jurors  are  locked  up  in  their  box,  there  to  fast  until 
iihstinence  shall  have  so  clarified  their  intellects  that  the  whole 
jarring  panel  can  discern  the  truth,  and  concur  in  a  unanimous 
ilecision.  One  i)oint  is  certain,  that  truth  is  one,  and  is  immut- 
al^e  —  until  the  jurors  all  agree,  they  cannot  all  be  right. 

It  is  not  our  inbention,  however,  to  discuss  this  great  judicial 
lioint,  or  to  question  the  avowed  superiority  of  the  mode  of 
investigating  ti'uth  adopted  in  this  antiquated  and  very  saga- 
cious era.  It  is  our  object  merely  to  exhibit  to  the  curious  reader 
one  of  the  most  memorftble  cases  of  judicial  combat  we  find  m 
the  annals  of  Spain.  It  occurred  at  the  bright  commencement 
of  the  reign,  and  in  the  youthful,  and,  as  yet,  glorious  days,  of 
Koderick  the  Goth ;    who  subsequently  tarnished  his  fame  at 


h  N 


;    J 


lY^ 


HE    CRAYON   PAPERS. 


i  '. 


»( 


•V'     -^  '  i^- 


home  by  his  misdeeds,  and,  finally,  lost  his  kingdom  and  bis  life 

m  the  banks  of  the  Guadalete,  in  that  disastrous  battle  which 

t.,ft"e  up  Spain  a  conquest  to  the  Moors.     The  following  is  the 

There  was  once  upon  a  time  a  certain  duke  of  Lorraine,  who 
was  acknowledged  throughout  his  domains  to  be  one  of  the  wisest 
princes  that  ever  lived.  In  fact,  there  was  no  one  measure 
adopted  by  him  that  did  not  astonisli  his  privy  counsellors  and 
gentlemen  in  attendance ;  and  he  said  such  witty  things,  and 
made  such  sensible  speeches,  that  the  jaws  of  his  high  chamber- 
lain were  well-nigh  dislocated  from  laughing  with  delight  at  one, 
and  gaping  with  wonder  at  the  other. 

This  very  witty  and  exceedingly  wise  potentate  lived  for  half 
a  century  in  single-blessedness  ;  at  length  his  courtiers  began  to 
think  it  a  great  pity  so  wise  and  wealthy  a  prince  should  not  have 
a  child  after  his  own  likeness,  to  inherit  his  talents  and  domains ; 
so  they  urged  him  most  respectfully  to  marry,  for  the  good  of 
his  estate,  and  the  welfare  of  his  subjects. 

He  turned  their  advice  over  in  his  mind  some  four  or  five 
years,  and  then  sent  forth  emissaries  to  summon  to  his  court  all 
the  beautiful  maidens  in  the  land  who  were  ambitious  of  sharing 
a  ducal  crown.  The  court  was  soon  crowded  with  beauties  of 
all  styles  and  complexions,  from  among  whom  he  chose  one  in 
the  earliest  budding  of  her  charms,  and  acknowledged  by  all 
the  gentlemen  to  be  unparalleled  for  grace  and  loveliness.  The 
courtiers  extolled  the  duke  to  the  skies  for  making  such  a  choice, 
and  considered  it  another  proof  of  his  great  wisdom.  "  The 
duke,"  said  they,  *'  is  waxing  a  little  too  old,  the  damsel,  on 
the  other  hand,  is  a  little  too  young ;  if  one  is  lacking  in  years, 
the  other  has  a  superabundance ;  thus  a  want  on  one  side  is 
balanced  by  the  excess  on  the  other,  and  the  result  is  a  well- 
assorted  marriage." 

The  duke,  as  is  often  the  case  with  wise  men  who  marry 
rather  late,  and  take  damsels  rather  youthful  to  their  bosoms, 
became  dotingly  fond  of  his  wife,  and  very  properly  indulgccl 
her  in  all  things.  He  was,  consequently,  cried  up  by  his  sub- 
jects in  general,  and  by  the  ladies  in  particular,  as  a  pattern  for 
husbands ;  and,  in  the  end,  from  the  wonderful  docility  with 
which  he  submitted  to  be  reined  and  checked,  acquired  the 
amiable  and  enviable  appellation  of  Duke  Philibert  the  wife- 
ridden. 

There  was  only  one  thing  that  disturbed  the  conjugal  felicity 
of  this  paragon  of  husbands  —  though  a  considerable  time 
elapsed  after  his  marriage,  there  was  still  no  prospect  of  an 


i    1 


d  his  life 
tie  which 
ng  is  the 

line,  who 
;he  wisest 
measure 
lors  aud 
ings,  and 
chamber- 
it  at  one, 

for  half 
began  to 
not  have 

domains ; 

i  good  of 

ir  or  five 
I  court  all 
>f  sharing 
sauties  of 
)8e  one  in 
ed  by  all 
Us.     The 

a  choice, 
I.  "  The 
imsel,  on 

in  years, 
le  side  is 
is  a  well- 

ho  marry 
bosoms, 
indulgc(i 
'  his  sub- 
atteru  for 
ility  with 
uired  the 
the  wife- 

al  felicity 
tble  time 
ict  of  an 


THE    WIDOW'S  ORDEAL. 


173 


jeir.  The  good  duke  left  no  means  untried  to  propitiate 
Heaven.  He  made  vows  and  pilgrimages,  he  fasted  and  he 
prayed,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  The  courtiers  were  all  aston- 
ished at  the  circumstance.  They  could  not  account  for  it. 
While  the  meanest  peasant  in  the  country  Y  ^  sturdy  brats  by 
dozens,  without  putting  up  a  prayer,  the  d.  vC  '  re  himself  to 
skin  and  bone  with  penances  and  fastings-,  yet  emed  farther 
ofif  from  his  object  than  ever. 

At  length,  the  worthy  prince  fell  danr  ">u.  'y  ill,  and  felt  his 
end  approaching.  He  looked  sorrowfully  id  dubiously  U[x)n 
his  young  and  tender  spouse,  who  hung  ovei  him  with  tears  and 
Bobbiugs.  ''  Alas  !  "  said  he,  "  tears  i  lo^n  dried  from  youth- 
ful eyes,  aud  sorrow  lies  lightly  on  a  yo-io.ul  heart.  In  a  little 
while  thou  wilt  forget  in  the  arms  of  another  husband  him  who 
has  loved  thee  so  tenderly." 

"  Never !  never  !  "  cried  the  duchess.  "  Never  will  I  cleave 
to  another !  Alas,  that  my  lord  should  think  me  capable  of 
such  inconstancy !  " 

The  worthy  and  wife-ridden  duke  was  soothed  by  her  assur- 
ances ;  for  he  could  not  brook  the  thought  of  giving  her  up  even 
after  he  should  be  dead.  Still  he  wished  to  have  some  pledge 
of  her  enduring  constancy : 

"  Far  be  it  from  me,  my  dearest  wife,"  said  he,  "  to  control 


thee  through  a 


long 


life.     A  year  and  a  day  of  strict  fidelity 


to 


will  appease  my  troubled  spirit.     Promise  to  remain  faithful 
my  memory  for  a  year  and  a  day,  and  I  will  die  in  peace." 

The  duchess  made  a  solemn  vow  to  that  effect,  but  the  uxori- 
ous feelings  of  the  duke  were  not  yet  satisfied.  "  Safe  bind, 
safe  find,"  thought  he  ;  so  he  made  a  will,  bequeathing  to  her  all 
his  domains,  on  condition  of  her  remaining  true  to  him  for  a 
year  and  a  day  after  his  decease ;  but,  should  it  appear  that, 
within  that  time,  she  had  in  any  wise  lapsed  from  her  fidelity, 
the  inheritance  should  go  to  his  nephew,  the  lord  of  a  neighbor- 
ing territory. 

Having  made  his  will,  the  good  duke  died  and  was  buried. 
Scarcely  was  he  in  his  tomb,  when  his  nephew  came  to  take 
possession,  thinking,  as  his  uncle  had  died  without  issue,  the 
domains  would  be  devised  to  him  of  course.  He  was  in  a  furi- 
ous passion,  when  the  will  was  produced,  and  the  young  widow 
declared  inheritor  of  the  dukedom.  As  he  was  a  violent,  high- 
handed man,  aud  one  of  the  sturdiest  knights  in  the  land,  fears 
were  entertained  that  he  might  attempt  to  seize  on  the  terri- 
tories by  force.  He  had,  however,  two  bachelor  uncles  for 
bosom   counsellors,  swaggering,  rakehelly  old  cavaliers,  wbO| 


i^i 


:l   :; 


)  " 


i 


i    ' 


Ml' 


I 


i!. 


i      : 


i  ) 


I   :      i 


I  t 


1  i'' 


.!  '■ 


t 


i'    1 


174 


THE  CBATON  PAPERS. 


having  led  loose  and  riotous  lives,  prided  themselves  upon 
knowing  the  world,  and  being  deeply  experienced  in  huiniin 
nature.  "  Pritliee,  man,  be  of  good  cheer,"  said  they,  "  tho 
duchess  is  a  young  and  buxom  widow.  She  has  just  buried  our 
brother,  who,  God  rest  his  soul !  was  somewhat  too  much  given 
to  praying  and  fasting,  and  kept  his  pretty  wife  always  tied  to 
his  girdle.  She  is  now  like  a  bird  from  a  cage.  Think  you  she 
will  keep  her  vow  ?  Pooh,  pooh  —  impossible  !  Take  our  wonls 
for  it  —  we  know  mankind,  and,  above  all,  womankind.  iShe 
cannot  hold  out  for  such  a  length  of  time  ;  it  is  not  in  woman- 
hood —  it  is  not  in  widowhood  —  we  know  it,  and  that's  enoutfh. 
Keep  a  sharp  look-out  upon  the  widow,  therefore,  and  witliin 
the  twelvemonth  you  will  catch  her  tripping  —  and  tlieu  the 
dukedom  is  your  own." 

The  nephew  was  pleased  with  this  counsel,  and  immediately 
placed  spies  round  the  duchess,  and  bribed  several  of  lier  ser- 
vants to  keep  watch  upon  her,  so  that  she  could  not  take  a 
single  step,  even  from  one  apartment  of  her  palace  to  another, 
without  being  observed.  Never  was  young  and  beautiful  widow 
exposed  to  so  terrible  an  ordeal. 

The  duchess  was  aware  of  the  watch  thus  kept  upon  lier. 
Though  confident  of  her  own  rectitude,  she  knew  that  it  is  not 
enough  for  a  woman  to  be  virtuous  —  she  must  be  above  tlie 
reach  of  slander.  For  the  whole  term  of  her  probation,  there- 
fore, she  proclaimed  a  strict  non-intercourse  with  tlie  other  sex. 
She  had  females  for  cabinet  ministers  and  chamberlains,  tlnough 
whom  she  transacted  all  her  public  and  private  concerns  ;  and  it 
is  said  that  never  were  the  affairs  of  the  dukedom  so  adroitly 
administered. 

All  males  were  rigorously  excluded  from  the  palace ;  she 
never  went  out  of  its  precincts,  and  whenever  she  moved  about 
its  courts  and  gardens,  she  surrounded  herself  with  a  body-guard 
of  young  maids  of  honor,  commanded  by  dames  renowned  for 
discretion.  Slie  slept  in  a  bed  witliout  curtains,  placed  in  the 
centre  of  a  room  illuminated  by  innumerable  wax  tapers.  Four 
ancient  spinsters,  virtuous  as  Virginia,  perfect  dragons  of  watch- 
fulness, who  only  slept  during  the  daytime,  kept  vigils  tlnough- 
out  the  night,  seated  in  the  four  corners  of  the  room  on  stools 
without  backs  or  arms,  and  with  seats  cut  in  checkers  of  the 
hardest  wood,  to  keep  them  from  dozing. 

Thus  wisely  and  warily  did  the  young  duchess  conduct  her- 
self for  twelve  long  months,  and  slander  almost  bit  her  tongue 
otf  in  despair,  at  finding  no  room  even  for  a  surmise.  Never 
was  ordeal  more  burdensome,  or  more  enduring ly  sustained. 


TUB   WIDOW'S  ORDEAL. 


175 


The  year  passed  away.  The  last,  odd  day  arrived,  and  a 
long,  long  day  it  was.  It  was  the  twenty-first  of  June,  the 
longest  day  in  the  year.  It  seemed  as  if  it  would  never  come  to 
an  end.  A  thousand  times  did  the  duchess  and  her  ladies  watch 
the  sun  from  the  windows  of  the  palace,  as  he  slowly  climbed 
the  vault  of  heaven,  and  seemed  still  more  slowly  to  roll  down. 
They  could  not  help  expressing  their  wonder,  now  and  then,  why 
tlie  duke  should  have  tagged  this  supernumerary  day  to  the 
end  of  the  year,  as  if  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  days  were 
not  sufficient  to  try  and  task  the  fidelity  of  any  woman.  It  is 
the  last  grain  that  turns  the  scale  —  the  last  drop  that  overflows 
the  goblet  —  and  the  last  moment  of  delay  that  exhausts  the 
patience.  By  the  time  the  sun  sank  below  the  horizon,  the 
duchess  was  in  a  fidget  tliat  passed  all  bounds,  and,  though 
several  hours  were  yet  to  i)ass  before  the  day  regularly  expired, 
she  could  not  have  remained  tliose  hours  in  durauce  to  gain  a 
royal  crown,  much  less  a  ducal  coronet.  So  she  gave  orders, 
and  her  palfrey,  magnificently  caparisoned,  was  brought  into 
the  court-yard  of  the  castle,  with  i)alfreys  for  all  her  ladies  in 
attendance.  In  this  way  she  sallied  forth,  just  as  the  sun  had 
gone  down.  It  was  a  mission  of  piety  —  a  pilgrim  cavalcade  to 
a  convent  at  the  foot  of  a  ueigliboring  mountain  —  to  return 
thanks  to  the  blessed  Virgin,  for  having  sustained  her  through 
this  fearful  ordeal. 

The  orisons  performed,  the  duchess  and  her  ladies  returned, 
ambling  gently  along  the  border  of  a  forest.  It  was  about  that 
mellow  hour  of  twilight  when  night  and  day  are  mingled,  and 
all  objects  are  indistinct.  Suddenly,  some  monstrous  animal 
sprang  from  out  a  thicket,  with  fearful  bowlings.  The  female 
body-guard  was  thrown  into  confusion,  and  fied  different  ways. 
It  was  some  time  before  they  recovered  from  their  panic,  and 
gathered  once  more  together ;  but  the  duchess  was  not  to  be 
found.  The  greatest  anxiety  was  felt  for  her  safety.  The 
hazy  mist  of  twilight  had  prevented  their  distinguishing  per- 
fectly the  animal  wliich  liad  affrighted  them.  Some  thought  it 
a  wolf,  others  a  bear,  others  a  wild  man  of  the  woods.  For 
upwards  of  au  hour  did  they  beleaguer  the  forest,  without  dar- 
ing to  venture  in,  and  were  on  the  point  of  giving  up  the  duch- 
ess as  torn  to  pieces  and  devoured,  when,  to  their  great  joy, 
they  beheld  her  advancing  in  the  gloom,  supported  by  a  stately 
cavalier. 

He  was  a  stranger  knight,  whom  nobody  knew.  It  was  im- 
possible to  distinguisii  his  countenance  in  the  dark ;  but  all  the 
ladies  agreed  that  he  was  of  noble  presence  and  captivating 


1  V. 


■I 


il 


!•  ■'. 


■I  i 


I 
it 


r 


:•  H^ 


S'' 


( 

■    1 

, 

„,?   %\i 

\ 

1  i 

1  } 

'       : 

V 

\ 

,1 

^' 

^l 

176 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


i/i 


^:i 


fill  I 


i      1   *  ■ 


address.  He  had  rescued  the  duchess  from  the  very  fangs  of 
the  iri'^inster,  which,  he  assured  the  ladies,  was  neither  a  wolf, 
nor  a  bear,  nor  yet  a  wild  man  of  the  woods,  but  a  veritable 
fiery  dragon,  a  species  of  monster  pec\iliarly  hostile  to  beauilful 
females  in  the  days  of  chivalry,  and  which  all  the  efforts  of 
knight-errantry  had  not  been  able  to  extirpate. 

The  ladies  crossed  themselves  when  they  heard  of  the  danger 
from  which  they  had  escaped,  and  could  not  enough  admire 
the  gallantry  of  the  cavalier.  The  duchess  would  fain  have 
prevailed  on  her  deliverer  to  accompany  her  to  her  court ;  l)ut 
he  had  no  time  to  spare,  being  a  knight-errant,  who  had  many 
adventures  on  hand,  and  many  distressed  damsels  and  afflicted 
widows  to  rescue  and  relieve  in  various  parts  of  the  country. 
Taking  a  respectful  leave,  therefore,  he  pursued  his  wayfaring, 
and  the  duchess  and  her  train  returned  to  the  palace.  Through- 
out the  whole  way,  the  ladies  were  unwearied  in  chanting  the 
praises  of  the  stranger  knight,  nay,  many  of  them  would  will- 
ingly have  incurred  the  danger  of  the  dragon  to  have  enjoyed 
the  happy  deliverance  of  the  duchess.  As  to  the  latter,  she 
rode  pensively  along,  but  said  nothing. 

No  sooner  was  the  adventure  of  the  wood  made  public,  than 
a  whirlwind  was  raised  about  the  ears  of  the  beautiful  duchess. 
The  blustering  nephew  of  the  deceased  duke  went  about,  armed 
to  the  teeth,  with  a  swaggering  uncle  at  each  shoulder,  ready 
to  back  him,  and  swore  the  duchess  had  forfeited  her  domain. 
It  was  in  vain  that  she  called  all  the  saints,  and  angels,  and  her 
ladies  in  attendance  into  the  bargain,  to  witness  that  she  had 
passed  a  year  and  a  day  of  immaculate  fidelity.  One  fatal  hour 
remained  to  ])e  accounted  for ;  and  into  the  space  of  one  little 
hour  sins  enough  may  be  conjured  up  by  evil  tongues,  U)  blast 
the  fame  of  a  whole  life  of  virtue. 

The  two  graceless  uncles,  who  had  seen  the  world,  were  ever 
ready  to  bolster  the  matter  through,  and  as  they  were  brawny, 
broad-shouldered  warriors,  and  veterans  in  brawl  as  well  as 
debauch,  they  had  great  sway  with  the  multitude.  If  any  one 
pretended  to  assert  the  innocence  of  the  duchess,  they  inter- 
rupted  him  with  a  loud  ha  !  ha  !  of  derision.  "  A  pretty  story, 
truly,"  would  they  cry,  "  about  a  wolf  and  a  dragon,  and  a 
young  widow  rescued  in  the  dark  by  a  sturdy  varlet  who  dares 
not  show  his  face  in  the  daylight.  You  may  tell  that  to  those 
who  do  not  know  human  nature,  for  our  parts  we  know  the  sex, 
and  that's  enough." 

If,  however,  the  other  repeated  his  assertion,  they  would  sud- 
denly knit  their  brows,  swell,  look  big,  and  put  their  hands 


»*y  fangs  of 
■her  a  wolf, 
veritable 
to  beautiful 
efforts  of 

the  danger 
gh  admire 
fain  have 
court;  hut 
Imd  many 
d  aftlictt'cj 
le  country, 
wayfaring, 
Through- 
"anting  the 
would  will- 
ve  enjoyed 
latter,  she 

ublie,  than 
j1  duchess, 
out,  armed 
Ider,  ready 
ler  domain. 
Is,  and  her 
at  she  had 
'■  fatal  hour 
'  one  little 
a,  to  blast 

were  ever 
e  brawny, 
8  well  as 
f  any  one 
hey  inter- 
;tty  story, 
3n,  and  a 
vho  dares 
;  to  those 
V  the  sex, 

ould  sud- 
nr  hands 


THE    WIDOW'S  ORDEAL. 


177 


upon  their  swords.  As  few  people  like  to  fight  in  a  cause  that 
does  not  touch  their  own  interests,  the  nephew  and  the  uncles 
were  suffered  to  hi.    i  tlieir  way,  and  swagger  uncontradicted. 

The  matter  was  at  lengtli  referred  to  a  tribunal,  composed  of 
all  the  dignitaries  of  the  dukedom,  and  many  and  repeated  con- 
sultations were  held.  The  character  of  the  duchess  through- 
out the  year  was  as  bright  and  spotless  as  the  moon  in  a  cloud- 
less night ;  one  fatal  hour  of  darkness  alone  intervened  \o 
eclipse  its  brightness.  Finding  human  sagacity  incapable  of 
dispi'lling  the  mystery,  it  was  determined  to  leave  the  questi(jM 
to  heaven  ;  or  in  (ither  words,  to  decide  it  by  the  ordeal  of  the 
sword  —  a  sage  tribunal  in  the  age  of  chivalry.  The  nephew 
iukI  two  bully  uncles  were  to  maintain  their  accusation  in  listed 
com! Kit,  and  six  months  were  allowed  to  the  duchess  to  provide 
herself  with  thrcf  eluimpions,  to  meet  them  in  the  field.  Should 
slie  fail  in  this,  or  should  ber  champions  be  vanquished,  her 
liouor  would  be  considered  as  attainted,  her  fidelity  as  forfeited, 
and  her  dukedom  would  go  to  the  nephew,  as  a  matter  of 
right. 

With  this  determination  the  duchess  was  fain  to  comply. 
Proclamations  were  accordingly  made,  and  heralds  sent  to  vari- 
ous parts ;  but  day  after  day,  week  after  week,  and  month 
after  month,  elaps<'d,  without  any  champion  appearing  to  assert 
her  loyalty  throughout  that  darksome  hour.  The  fair  widow 
was  reduced  to  despair,  when  tidings  reached  her  of  grand 
tournaments  to  be  held  at  Toledo,  in  celebration  of  the  nup- 
tials of  Don  Roderick,  tiie  last  of  the  Gothic  kings,  with  the 
Morisco  princess  Exilona.  As  a  last  resort,  the  duchess  re- 
])aired  to  the  Spanish  court,  to  implore  ice  gallantry  of  its 
assembled  chivalry. 

rhe  ancient  city  of  Toledo  was  a  scene  of  gorgeous  revelry 
on  the  event  of  the  royal  nuptials.  The  youthful  king,  brave, 
ardent,  and  magnificent,  and  his  lovely  bride,  beaming  with  all 
the  radiant  beauty  of  the  East,  were  hailed  with  shouts  and 
acclamations  whenever  they  appeared. 

Their  nobles  vied  with  each  other  in  the  luxury  of  their 
attire,  their  prancing  steeds,  and  splendid  retii  ues ;  and  the 
haughty  dames  of  the  court  appeared  in  a  blaze  of  jewels. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  pageantry,  the  beautiful,  but  aflSicted 
Duchess  of  Lorraine  made  her  approach  to  the  throne.  SJ»e 
was  dressed  in  black,  and  closely  veiled ;  four  duennas  of  the 
most  staid  and  severe  aspect,  and  six  beautiful  demoiselles, 
formed  her  female  attendants.  She  was  guarded  by  several 
very   ancient,   withered,  and  gray- headed   cavaliers ;   and  her 


h 


1 1 

1 


'  I' 


i; 


:    ,i   t 


' 


r 


I    ] 


178 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


train  was  borne  by  one  of  the  most  deformed  and  diminutive 
dwarfs  in  existence. 

Advancing  to  the  foot  of  the  throne,  she  knelt  down,  and, 
throwing  up  her  veil,  revealed  a  countenance  so  beautiful  that 
half  the  cjurtiers  present  were  ready  to  renounce  wives  and 
mistresses,  and  devote  themselves  to  her  service  ;  l)ut  when 
she  made  known  that  she  came  in  quest  of  champions  to  de- 
fenc'  her  fame,  every  cavalier  pressed  forward  to  offer  his  arm 
and  sword,  without  inquiring  into  the  merits  of  the  case ;  for  it 
seemed  clear  that  so  beauteous  a  lady  could  have  done  notliiiiij;  but 
what  was  right ;  and  that,  at  any  rate,  she  ought  to  l)e  championed 
in  following  the  bent  of  her  humors,  whether  right  or  wroii^. 

Encouraged  by  such  gallant  zeal,  the  duchess  suffered  her- 
self to  be  raised  from  the  ground,  and  related  the  wliol(\  story 
of  her  distress.  When  she  concluded,  the  king  remained  for 
some  time  silent,  charmed  by  the  music  of  her  voice.  At 
length:  "As  1  hope  for  salvation,  most  beautiful  duchess," 
said  he,  "  were  I  not  a  sovereign  king,  and  bound  in  duty  to 
my  kingdom,  T  myself  would  put  lance  in  rest  to  viiidioute 
your  cause  ;  as  ,l  is,  I  here  give  full  permission  to  my  knights, 
and  promise  lists  and  a  fair  field,  and  that  the  contest  shall 
take  place  before  the  walls  of  Toledo,  in  presence  of  my  assem- 
bled court." 

As  soon  as  the  pleasure  of  the  king  was  known,  there  was  a 
strife  among  the  cavaliers  present,  for  the  honor  of  the  contest. 
It  was  decided  by  lot,  and  the  successful  candidates  were 
objects  of  great  envy,  for  every  one  was  ambitious  of  liiKlinij; 
favor  in  the  eyes  of  the  beautiful  widow. 

Missives  were  sent,  summoning  the  nephew  and  his  two 
uncles  to  Toledo,  to  maintain  their  accusation,  and  a  day  was 
appointed  for  the  combat.  When  the  day  arrived,  all  Toledo 
was  in  commotion  at  an  early  hour.  The  lists  had  been  pie- 
pared  in  the  usual  place,  just  without  the  walls,  at  the  foot  of 
the  rugged  rocks  on  which  the  city  is  built,  and  on  that  beauti- 
ful meadow  along  the  Tagus,  known  by  the  name  of  the  king's 
garden.  The  poi)ulace  had  already  asseml)l(>d,  each  one  eager 
to  secure  a  favorable  place  ;  the  balconies  were  filled  with  tlie 
ladies  of  the  court,  clad  in  their  richest  attire,  and  l»amls  of 
youthful  knights,  splendidly  armed  and  decorated  with  their 
ladies'  devices,  were  managing  their  superbly  caparisoned  steeds 
about  the  field.  The  king  at  length  came  forth  in  stale,  ac- 
companied by  the  (pieen  Kxilona.  They  took  their  scats  in  a 
raised  balcony,  under  a  canopy  of  rich  damask  ;  and,  at  sight 
of  them,  the  people  rent  the  air  with  acclamations. 


ill    ! 


TUE   WIDOW'S  ORDEAL. 


179 


id  dim 


inutive 


It  down,  and, 
Jeautiful  that 
|ce  wives  and 
'6;    ''lit  wlien 

Pions  to  (le- 
offt'r  his  anil 

case;  fo,.  jt 
le  notiiiim  ')iit 
eoliainpioiii'd 

|t  or  Wl'Ollir. 

suffered  hor- 
wliole  story 
n'inaiiied  for 
!•  voice.     At 
III  duchess," 
'<1  in  (hity  to 
to  vindicate 
•nj  Iviii^^iiLs, 
contest  sliall 
of  my  assciii- 

.  there  was  a 
f  the  contest, 
didates  wero 
Js  of  (inthritf 

and  his  two 
<l  a  day  was 
1,  all  'lujcdo 
ul  i)een  pro- 
'  the  f(jot  of 
that  heanti- 
f  the  kiurr's 
:h  one  eaycr 
led  with  the 
h1   haiuls  of 

I  with  their 
;oned  steeds 

II  state,  ac- 
'  seats  in  a 
h1,  at  si.dit 


The  nephew  and  his  uncles  now  rode  into  the  field,  armed 
cr/j>(V/>?>,  and  followed  by  a  train  of  cavaliers  of  their  own 
roystcring  cast,  great  swearers  and  earousers,  arrant  swash- 
bucklers, with  clanking  armor  and  jingling  spurs.  When  the 
people  of  Toledo  beheld  the  vaunting  and  diseourteons  appear- 
ance of  these  knights,  they  were  more  anxious  than  ever  for 
the  success  of  the  gentle  duchess ;  Init,  at  the  same  time,  the 
sturdy  and  stalwart  frames  of  these  wai-riors,  showed  that 
whoever  won  the  victory  from  them,  must  do  it  at  tiie  cost  of 
many  a  bitter  blow. 

As  tiie  nephew  and  his  riotous  crew  rode  in  at  one  side  of  the 
field,  the  fair  widow  appeared  at  the  other,  with  her  suite  of 
irrave  gray-headed  courtiers,  her  ancient  duennas  and  dainty 
diMii()is(dles,  and  the  little  dwarf  toiling  along  under  the  weight 
of  her  train.  Every  one  made  way  for  her  as  she  passed,  and 
blessed  her  Iteautiful  face,  and  prayed  for  success  to  her  cause. 
Slie  took  her  seat  in  a  lower  balcony,  not  far  from  the  sover- 
{'l;:,iis ;  and  her  pale  face,  set  off  Ijy  her  mourning  weeds,  was  as 
tlic  moon  shining  forth  from  among  the  clouds  of  night. 

Tlie  trumpets  sounded  for  the  combat.  The  warriors  were 
just  entering  the  lists,  A'hen  a  stranger  knight,  armed  in  pano- 
ply, and  followed  by  tv  o  pages  and  an  esquire,  came  galloping 
into  the  Held,  and,  riding  up  to  the  royal  balcony,  claimed,  the 
C()nil)at  as  a  matter  of  right. 

"In  me,"  cried  he,  "  behold  the  cavalier  who  had  the  happi- 
ness to  rescue  the  beautiful  duchess  from  the  peril  of  the  forest, 
and  the  misfortune  to  bring  on  her  this  grievous  calumny.  It 
was  bnt  recently,  in  the  course  of  my  errantry,  that  tidings  of 
her  wrongs  have  reached  my  ears,  and  1  have  urged  hither  at 
all  sjieed.  to  stand  forth  in  her  vindication." 

No  sooner  did  the  duchess  hear  the  accents  of  the  knight 
than  she  recognized  his  voice,  and  joined  her  prayers  with  his 
that  he  might  enter  the  lists.  The  dilllculty  was,  to  determine 
which  of  the  three  champions  already  a[)pointed  should  yield 
his  place,  each  insisting  on  the  honor  of  the  coml)at.  The 
stranger  knight  would  liave  settled  the  j^oint,  l)y  taking  the 
wiiole  contest  upon  himself ;  but  this  the  other  knights  would 
not  [lerniit.  It  was  at  length  determined,  as  before,  by  lot,  and 
the  cavalier  who  lost  the  chance  retired  murmuring  and  dis- 
consolate. 

The  trumpets  again  sounded  —  the  lists  were  opened.  The 
arrogant  nephew  and  his  two  dravvcansir  uncles  appeared  so 
completely  cased  in  steel,  that  they  and  their  steeds  were  like 
moving   musses  of  irou.     When  they  uuderstood  the  stranger 


I 


Jit" 


180 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


\  1. 


ii-i; 


■riis 


.14 


knight  to  be  the  same  that  had  rescued  the  duchess  from  hor 
peril,  they  greeted  him  with  the  most  boisterous  derision  : 

"Oho!  sir  Knight  of  the  Dragon,"  said  they,  "you  who 
pretend  to  champion  fair  widows  in  the  dark,  come  on,  and 
vindicate  your  deeds  of  darkness  in  the  open  day." 

The  only  reply  of  the  cavalier  was  to  put  lance  in  rest,  and 
brace  himself  for  the  encounter.  Needless  is  it  to  relate  the 
particulars  of  a  battle,  which  was  like  so  many  hundred  com- 
bats that  have  been  said  and  sung  in  prose  and  verse.  Who  is 
there  but  must  have  foreseen  the  event  of  a  contest,  where 
Heaven  had  to  decide  on  the  guilt  or  innocence  of  the  most 
beautiful  and  immaculate  of  widows  ? 

The  sagacious  reader,  deeply  read  in  this  kind  of  judicial 
combats,  can  imagine  the  encounter  of  the  graceless  nepliew 
and  the  stranger  knight.  He  sees  their  concussion,  man  to 
man,  and  horse  to  horse,  in  mid  career,  and  sir  Graceless 
hurled  to  the  ground,  and  slain.  He  will  not  wonder  that  the 
assailants  of  the  brawny  uncles  were  less  successful  in  tlicir 
rude  encounter  ;  but  he  will  picture  to  himself  the  stout  stranger 
spurring  to  their  rescue,  in  the  very  critical  moment ;  he  will 
see  him  transfixing  one  with  his  lance,  and  cleaving  the  other 
to  the  chine  with  a  back  stroke  of  his  sword,  thus  leaving  the 
trio  of  accusers  dead  upon  the  field,  and  establishing  the  im- 
maculate fidelity  of  the  cuiehess,  and  her  title  to  the  tlukedom. 
beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt. 

The  air  rang  with  acclamations ;  nothing  was  hoard  liut 
praises  of  the  beauty  and  virtue  of  the  duchess,  and  of  the 
prowess  of  the  stranger  k  ight ;  but  the  public  joy  was  still 
more  increased  when  the  champion  raised  liis  visor,  and  re- 
vealed the  countenance  of  one  of  the  bravest  cavaliers  of  Spain. 
renowned  for  his  gallantry  in  the  service  of  the  sex,  and  who 
had  been  /ound  the  world  in  quest  of  similar  adventures. 

That  worthy  knight,  however,  was  severely  wounded,  and 
remained  for  a  long  time  ili  of  his  'vounds.  The  lovely  ducli- 
ess,  grateful  for  haviug  twice  owed  her  protection  to  his  arm, 
attended  him  daily  during  his  illness  ;  and  finally  rewarded  his 
gallantry  with  her  hand. 

The  king  would  fa,in  have  had  the  knight  establish  his  title 
to  such  high  advancement  by  farther  deeds  of  arms  ;  hut  his 
courtiers  declared  that  he  already  merited  the  lady,  by  thus 
vindicating  her  fame  and  fortune  in  a  deadly  combat  to  (M1- 
trauce  ;  and  the  lady  herself  hinted  that  she  was  perfectly  sat- 
isfied of  his  prowess  in  arms,  from  the  proofs  slie  had  receivei 
in  his  achievement  in  the  forest. 


THE  CREOLE   VILLAGE. 


181 


ui 


less  from  hor 
erision  : 

"you  who 
'pme  on,  and 

'  in  rest,  and 

to  relate  thr 

lundred  coin- 

I'se.     Who  is 

ontest,  where 

of  the  most 

fl  of  judicial 
'{'less  nepliew 
ision,  man  to 
sir  Graceless 
nder  that  the 
ssfiil  in  their 
3tout  stranger 
nent;  he  will 
ing  the  other 
s  leavincT  the 
ihing  the  ini- 
he  dukedom. 

as  heard  but 
,  and  of  the 
joy  was  still 
isor,  and  re- 
iers  of  Spain, 
sex,  and  who 
itiires. 

ounded,  and 

lovely  duch- 

to  his  arm, 

rewarded  his 

ilish  his  title 
ms  ;  hut  his 
idy,  by  thus 
mbat  to  ou- 
)erfectly  sat- 
jad  receive i 


Their  nuptials  were  celebrated  witii  great  magnificence.  The 
present  husband  of  the  duchess  did  not  pray  and  fast  like  his 
predecessor,  Philibert  the  wife-ridden  ;  yet  he  found  greater 
favor  in  the  eyes  of  Heaven,  for  their  union  was  blessed  with 
a  numerous  progen}^  —  the  daughters  chaste  and  beauteous  as 
their  mother ;  the  sons  stout  and  valiant  as  their  sire,  and  re- 
nowned, like  him,  for  relieving  disconsolate  damsels  and  deso- 
lated widows. 


THE  CREOLE  VILLAGE 


A   SKETCH    FROJI    A    STEAMBOAT. 


First  Publlghcd  in  1837. 


In  travelling  about  our  motley  country,  I  am  often  reminded 
of  Ariosto's  account  of  the  moon,  in  which  the  good  paladin 
Astolpho  found  every  thing  garnered  up  th.at  had"  been  lost  on 
earth.  iSo  I  am  apt  to  imagine,  that  many  things  lost  in  the 
old  world,  are  treasured  up  in  the  new;  having  been  handed 
down  from  generation  to  generation,  since  the  (»arly  days  of 
the  colonies.  A  European  antiquary,  therefore,  curious  in  his 
researches  after  the  ancient  and  almost  obliterated  customs 
and  usages  of  his  country,  would  do  well  to  put  himself  upon 
the  track  of  some  early  l)and  of  emigrants,  follow  them  across 
the  Atlantic,  pnd  rummage  among  theiy  descendants  on  our 
shores. 

In  the  phraseology  of  New  England  might  be  found  many  an 
old  English  provincial  phrase,  long  since  obsolete  in  the  parent 
country ;  with  some  quaint  relics  of  the  Koundheads ;  while 
Virginia  cherishes  peculiarities  charactistic  of  the  days  of 
Elizabeth  and  Sir  Walter    Raleigh. 

In  the  same  way  the  sturdy  yeomanry  of  New  Jersey  and 
Pennsylvania  keep  up  many  usages  fading  away  in  ancient 
Germany ;  while  many  an  honest,  broad-l)ottomed  custom, 
nearly  extinct  in  venerable  Holland,  may  be  found  flourishing 
in  pristine  vigor  and  luxuriance  in  Dutch  villages,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Mohawk  and  the  Hudson. 

In  no  part  of  our  country,  however,  are  the  customs  and 
peculiarities,  imported  from  the  old  world  by  the  earlier  set- 
tlers, kept  up  with  more  lidelity  than  in  tlio  littie.  poverty- 
stricken  villages  of   Spanish  and  French  origin,  which  border 


]'f 


m. 


H' 


i^ 


182 


THE  CRAYON   PAPERS. 


!•     t    ' 


!H'      Vll 


'-■   11 


i|.''l 


Up 


the  rivers  of  ancient  Louisiana.  Tiieir  population  is  pjenerally 
made  up  of  the  deseeniUmts  of  tliose  nations,  married  [ind 
interwoven  togetlier,  and  occasionally  crossed  with  a  slight 
dash  of  the  Indian.  The  French  character,  however,  floats  on 
lop,  as,  from  its  huoyant  qualities,  it  is  sure  to  do,  whenever  it 
forms  a  particle,  however  small,  of  an  intermixture. 

In  these  serene  and  dilapidated  villages,  art  and  nature  stand 
still,  and  the  world  forgets  to  turn  round.  The  revolutions 
that  distract  other  parts  of  this  niutihle  planet,  reach  not  lioic, 
or  pass  over  without  leaving  any  trfce.  The  fortunate  inhal)ii. 
ants  have  none  of  that  public  spii.t  which  extends  its  caros 
beyond  its  horizon,  and  imports  tro!'j)|(.  and  i)erplexity  from 
all  quarters  in  newspapers.  In  fact,  nevvspapcs  are  almost 
unknown  in  these  villages,  and  as  French  is  the  current  lan- 
guage, the  inhabitants  have  little  community  of  oi)iniou  with 
their  republican  neighbors.  They  retain,  therefore,  their  old 
habits  of  passive  obedience  to  tliC  decrees  of  government,  as 
though  they  still  lived  und.^r  the  absolute  sway  of  colonial 
commandants,  instead  of  being  part  and  parcel  of  the  sover- 
eign people,  and  having  a  voice  in  public  legislation. 

A  few  "■;,■  :^  men,  who  have  grown  gray  on  their  hereditary 
acres,  iiiv.J  are  of  the  good  old  colonial  stock,  exert  a  patriar- 
chal sway  ;;.  all  matters  of  public  and  private  import ;  their 
opinions  are  considered  oracular,  and  their  word  is  law. 

The  inhabitants,  moreover,  have  none  of  that  eagerness  for 
gain  and  rage  for  improvement  which  keep  our  peoi)le  continu- 
ally on  the  move,  and  our  country  towns  incessantly  in  a  state 
of  transition.  There  the  magic  phrases,  "town  lots,"  "•water 
privileges,"  "railroads,"  and  other  comprehensive  and  soul- 
stirring  words  from  the  speculator's  vocabulary,  are  never  heard. 
The  residents  dwell  in  the  houses  built  by  their  forefatiicrs, 
without  thinking  of  enlarging  or  modernizing  them,  or  pulling 
them  down  and  turning  them  into  granite  stores.  The  trees, 
under  which  they  have  been  born  and  have  played  in  infancy, 
flourish  undisturbed  ;  though,  by  cutting  them  down,  they  might 
open  new  streets,  and  put  money  in  tiieir  pockets.  In  a  word, 
the  almighty  dollar,  that  great  object  of  universal  devotion 
throughout  our  land,  seems  to  have  no  genuine  devotees  in  these 
peculiar  villages  ;  and  unless  some  of  its  missio;  vries  i)eiietrate 
there,  and  erect  banking  houses  and  other  pious  shrines,  there  is 
no  knowing  how  long  the  inhabitants  may  remain  in  their  pres- 
ent state  of  contented  poverty. 

In  descending  one  of  our  great  Western  rivers  in  a  steam- 
boat, I  met  with  two  worthies  from  one  of  these  villages,  whu 


THE  CREOLE   VILLAGE. 


183 


IS  senorally 
manicd  aiid 
'itii  :i  sli<r|,t 
't'l-,  flouts  on 

whcnovcr  it 

nature  stand 
•■evolutions 
leh  uot  here, 
nntc  iuhaliii- 
<ls  its  caics 
•l)l('xity  from 
arc   almost 

eurrcMit  laii- 
oi)iuiou  with 
'■t-S  the  if  old 

ernuKMit,  as 

of  colonial 
»t'  the  sovcr- 
I. 

ir  hereditary 
rt  a  patriar- 
mport;  their 
law. 

L'ujTcrness  for 
)l)le  coutinu- 
tly  iu  a  state 
•ts,"  ''water 
Vii  and  soul- 
ncver  heard, 
forefathers, 
n,  or  i)ullin<i; 
Tli(>  ti'eos, 

I  in  infancy, 
,  they  niiiriit 

Fn  a  word, 
>al  devotion 
tees  in  these 
es  penetrate 
nes,  thei'e  is 

II  their  {»res- 

in  a  Hteain- 
illagcs,  whu 


had  been  on  a  distant  excursion,  the  longest  they  had  ever 
made,  as  they  seldom  ventured  far  from  home.  One  was  the 
great  man,  or  Grand  Seigneur,  of  the  village ;  not  that  he  en- 
joyed any  legal  privileges  or  power  there,  every  thing  of  the 
kind  having  been  done  away  when  tlie  province  was  ceded  by 
France  to  the  United  States.  His  sway  over  his  neighbors  was 
merely  one  of  custom  and  convention,  ont  of  deference  to  his 
family.  Beside,  he  was  worth  full  tifty  thousand  dollars,  an 
amount  almost  equal,  in  the  imaginations  of  the  villagers,  to 
tiie  treasures  of  King  Solomon. 

'I'his  very  substantial  old  gentleman,  though  of  the  fourth  or 
fifth  generation  in  this  country,  retained  the  true  Gallic  feature 
and  deportment,  and  reminded  me  of  one  of  those  provincial 
potentates  that  are  to  be  met  with  in  the  remote  parts  of  Franee. 
lie  was  of  a  large  frame,  a  ginger-bread  complexion,  stroitg 
features,  eyes  that  stood  out  like  glass  knobs,  and  a  pronuneut 
nose,  which  he  frequently  regaled  from  a  gold  snuff-l)ox,  and 
occasionally  blew,  with  a  colored  handkerchief,  until  it  sounded 
like  a  trumpet. 

He  was  attended  by  an  old  negro,  as  black  as  ebony,  wit ii  a 
huge  mouth,  in  a  continual  grin  ;  evidently  a  privileged  *i.nd 
favorite  servant,  who  had  grown  up  and  grown  old  with  hini. 
He  was  dressed  in  creole  style  —  with  white  jacket  and  trou- 
sers, a  stiff  shirt  collar,  that  threatened  to  "ut  off  his  ears,  a 
bright  Madras  handkerchief  tied  round  his  '  id,  and  large  gold 
ear-rings.  He  was  the  [wlitest  negro  I  ni  with  in  a  Western 
tour;  and  that  is  saying  a  great  deal,  foi,  excepting  the  In- 
dians, the  nc.'groes  are  the  most  gentlemanlike  personages  to  be 
met  with  in  those  parts.  It  is  true,  they  differ  from  the  In- 
dians in  lieing  a  little  extra  polite  and  complimentary.  He  was 
also  one  of  tiio  merriest ;  and  here,  t  <.  the  negroes,  however 
we  uuiy  deplore  their  unhappy  conditiuii,  have  the  advantage  of 
their  masters.  The  whites  are,  in  general,  too  free  and  prosper- 
ous to  l)e  merry.  The  cares  of  maintaining  their  rights  and  lib- 
;'rties,  adding  to  their  wealth,  and  making  presidents,  engross 
!ill  their  thoughts,  and  dry  up  all  the  moisture  of  their  souls. 
If  you  hear  a  broad,  hearty,  devil-may-care  laugh,  l)e  assured  it 
is  a  negro's. 

Beside  this  African  domestic,  the  seig;'»\ir  of  the  village  had 
another  no  less  cherished  and  privileged  attendant.  This  was 
a  huge  dog,  of  the  mastitT  breed,  with  a  deep,  hanging  mouth, 
and  a  look  of  surly  gnivity.  He  walked  about  the  cabin  with 
tlie  air  of  a  dog  perfectly  at  home,  and  who  had  paid  for  his 
passage.     At  diuuer  time  1  e  took  his  seat  beside  his  master, 


\^ 


\     \ 


184 


THE  CRAYON   PAPERS. 


pi 


I 


m 


• 


MW^i 


i     ■  n 


"'1^' 


giving  him  a  glance  now  and  then  out  of  a  corner  of  his  eye, 
whicli  bespoke  perfect  confidence  that  he  would  not  be  forgot- 
ten. Nor  was  he  —  every  now  and  then  'x  huge  morsel  would 
be  thrown  to  him,  pevadveuture  the  half-i)ieked  leg  of  a  fowl, 
which  he  would  receivt'  with  a  snap  like  the  springing  of  a  steel- 
trap  —  one  gulp,  and  all  was  down  ;  and  a  glance  of  the  eye 
told  his  master  that  he  was  ready  for  another  consignment. 

The  other  village  worthy,  travelling  in  company  with  the 
seigneur,  was  of  a  totally  different  stamp.  Small,  thin,  and 
weazen-faced,  as  Frenchmen  are  apt  to  be  represented  in  cari- 
cature, with  a  bright,  squirrel-like  eye,  and  a  gold  ring  in  liis 
ear.  His  dress  was  tlimsy,  and  sat  loose  y  ^n  his  frame,  and  he 
had  altogether  the  look  of  one  with  but  little  coin  in  his  pocket. 
Yet,  though  one  of  the  poorest,  I  was  assured  he  was  one  of  ihc 
merriest  and   uost  popular  personages  in  his  native  village. 

Compere  Martin,  as  he  was  commonly  called,  was  the  facto- 
tum of  the  place  —  sportsman,  schoolmaster,  and  land-sur- 
veyor. He  could  sing,  dance,  and,  altove  all,  play  on  the  fiddle, 
an  invaluable  accomi)lishmcnt  in  an  old  French  creole  village, 
for  the  inhabitants  have  a  liereditary  love  for  balls  and  fetes ;  if 
they  work  but  little,  they  dance  a  great  deal,  and  a  fiddle  is  the 
joy  of  their  heart. 

What  had  sent  Compere  Martin  travelling  with  the  Grand 
Seigneur  I  could  not  learn  ;  he  eviilcntly  looked  up  to  him  with 
great  deference,  and  was  assiduous  in  rendering  him  petty  at- 
tentions;  from  vvhich  I  concluded  that  he  lived  at  home  upon 
the  crumbs  which  fell  from  his  table.  He  was  gayest  when  out 
of  his  sight;  and  had  his  song  and  his  joke  when  forward,  anionjj; 
the  deck  passengers  ;  but  altogether  (.'om[)ere  Martin  was  out 
of  his  element  on  board  of  a  stc;imlM)at.  He  was  quite  another 
being,  I  am  told,  when  ut  home  in  his  own  village. 

I. ike  his  opulent  felhm'-traveller.  he  too  had  his  canine  fol- 
lower and  retainer  —  and  one  suited  to  his  different  fortunes  — 
Cfue  of  the  civilest,  most  unoffending  little  dogs  in  the  world. 
Unlike  the  lordly  maUiff,  he  weme(l  to  think  he  had  no  right 
on  boanl  of  the  steamboat;  if  y/u  did  but  look  hard  at  him,  he 
would  throw  himself  uijou  his  bu^k,  and  lift  up  his  legH,  as  if 
luiploring  mercy. 

At  table  he  took  his  seat  a  little  distance  from  his  master ; 
not  wit  h  the  bluff,  confident  air  of  the  mastiff,  but  quietly  and 
diffidently,  his  head  on  one  side,  with  one  ear  dubiously 
slouched,  the  other  hopefully  cocked  up ;  his  uiuh^r  teetli 
projecting  beyond  his  black  nose,  and  his  eye  wistfully  fol- 
lowing each  morsel  that  went  into  his  master's  raouth. 


\i: 


?■:?        ? 


THE  CREOLE  VILLAGE. 


185 


of  his  eye, 

be  forgot^ 

rsel  would 

of  a  fowl, 

of  a  stoei- 

of  the  eye 

unent. 

|y  with   the 

^1  tliin,  ju)(l 

|ted  ill  cari- 

I'l'ng  in  his 

iiH",  and  he 

"lis  po('l<et. 

i  OIK'  of  the 

illuge. 
3  the  facto- 
1  hind-sur- 
1  the  fid.Ue, 
'ole  village, 
!i<l  fetes  ;  if 
fiddle  is  the 

the  (J rand 
o  him  witli 
in  petty  at- 
home  upon 
st  when  out 
■JVi'd,  iimong 
Lin  was  out 
lite  another 

canine  fol- 

fortimi's  — 

the  world. 

d  no  right 

at  hill),  he 

leg«,  as  if 

is  master ; 
[iiietly  and 
<lul*iou.slv 
vder  teetii 
tfully  fol- 


If  Compere  Martin  now  and  then  should  venture  to  abstract 
i  morsel  from  his  plate  to  give  to  his  humble  companion,  it  was 
edifying  to  see  with  what  diffidence  the  exemplary  little  animal 
would  take  hold  of  it,  with  the  very  tip  of  his  teeth,  as  if  he 
would  almost  rather  not,  or  was  fearful  of  taking  too  great  a 
liberty.  And  then  with  what  decorum  would  he  cat  it !  How 
many  efforts  would  he  make  in  swallowing  it,  as  if  it  stuck  in 
his  throat ;  with  what  daintiness  would  he  lick  his  lips ;  and 
then  with  what  an  air  of  thankfulness  would  he  resume  his 
seat,  with  his  teeth  once  more  projecting  beyond  his  nose,  and 
au  eye  of  humble  expectation  fixed  upon  his  master. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the  steamboat  stopped  at 
the  village  whioli  was  the  residence  of  these  worthies.  It  stood 
on  the  high  bunk  of  the  river,  and  bore  traces  of  having  been  a 
frontier  trading  post.  There  were  the  remains  of  stockades 
that  once  protected  it  from  the  Indians,  and  the  houses  were 
in  the  ancient  Spanish  and  French  colonial  taste,  the  place 
having  been  successively  under  the  domination  of  both  those 
nations  prior  to  the  cession  of  Louisiana  to  the  United  States. 

The  arrival  of  the  seigneur  of  fifty  thousand  dollars,  and 
his  liuml)le  com[)anion.  Compere  Martin,  had  evidently  been 
looked  forward  to  as  an  event  in  tlie  village.  Numbers  of  men, 
women,  and  chihlreu,  white,  yellow,  and  black,  were  collected 
on  the  liver  bank  ;  most  of  them  clad  in  old-fashioned  French 
garments,  and  their  heads  decorated  with  colored  handkerchiefs, 
or  white  night-caps.  The  moment  tlie  steamlxiat  came  within 
sijiht  and  hearing,  there  was  a  waving  of  handkerchiefs,  and  a 
screaming  and  bawling  of  salutations,  and  felicitations,  that 
hultle  all  description. 

The  old  gentleniiin  of  fifty  thousand  dollars  was  received  by 
a  train  of  relatives,  and  friends,  and  children,  and  grandchildren, 
whom  he  kissed  on  each  cheek,  and  who  formed  a  procession  in 
hJH  rear,  with  a  legion  of  domestics,  of  all  ages,  following  him 
to  a  large,  old-iashioned  French  house,  that  domineered  over  the 
village. 

His  black  valet-de-chambre,  in  white  jacket  and  trousers,  and 
gold  ear-rings,  was  met  on  the  shore  by  a  boon,  though  rustic 
companion,  a  tall  negro  fellow,  with  a  long,  good-humored  face, 
utid  the  profile  of  a  horse,  which  stood  out  from  beneath  a  nar- 
row rimmed  straw  hat,  stuck  on  the  back  of  his  head.  The 
cx[)lo&ions  of  laughter  of  these  two  varlets,  on  meeting  and 
exchanging  compliments,  were  enough  to  electrify  the  country 
round. 

The  most  hearty  reception,  however,  was  that  given  to  Con> 


;i 


186 


THE  CRAYON   PAPERS. 


u 


h" 


r  /   i 


pere  Martin.  Everybody,  yonnf;  and  old,  hailed  him  before  lie 
got  to  hind.  EvorylxKly  had  a  joke  for  Compere  IMartin,  and 
Compere  Martin  had  a  joke  for  everybody.  Even  his  littlo  do" 
appeared,  to  partake  of  his  popularity,  and  to  be  earessi'd  hv 
every  hand.  Indeed,  he  was  quite  a  ditferent  animal  the  im"- 
ment  he  touehed  the  land.  Here  he  was  at  home  ;  here  lu'  w:h 
of  consequence.  He  barked,  he  leaped,  he  frisked  about  his  olr 
friends,  and  ther  would  skim  round  the  place  in  a  wide  circle 
as  if  mad. 

I  traced  Compere  Martin  and  his  little  dog  to  their  home 
It  was  an  old  ruinous  Spanish  house,  of  large  dimensions 
with  verandas  overshadowed  by  ancient  elms.  'I'lie  house  liad 
probably  Iieeu  the  n'sidence,  in  old  times,  of  the  Spanish  ('((ni- 
mandant.  In  on(?  wing  of  this  crazy,  l)Ut  luistocratical  nltodc, 
was  nestled  the  family  of  my  fellow-traveller ;  for  poor  devils 
are  apt  to  be  magnillcently  clad  and  lodged,  in  the  casl-diT 
clothes  and  abandonevl  palaces  of  the  great  and  wt-althy. 

The  arrival  of  Compere  Martin  was  welcomed  by  a  legion  of 
women,  children,  and  mongrel  curs  ;  and,  as  poverty  and  liny- 
ety  generally  go  hand  in  hand  among  the  French  and  their  de- 
scendants, the  crazy  mansion  soon  resounded  with  loud  gossip 
and  light-hearted  laughter. 

As  the  steamboat  paused  a  short  lime  at  the  villr.ge,  I  took 
oecasion  to  stroll  alK)ut  the  })lace.  Most  of  the  houses  were  in 
the  French  tast'.',  with  casements  and  rickety  verandas,  Inil  most 
of  them  in  tlimsy  and  ruinous  condition.  All  the  wiigons,  plouL^hs, 
and  other  utensils  about  the  place  were  of  ancient  and  iiieo., 
venieut  Callic  (ionstruction,  such  as  had  been  brought  t'lom 
France  in  the  primitive  days  of  the  colony.  Tlu'  very  looks  of 
the  people  reminded  me  of  the  villages  of  France. 

From  one  of  the  houses  came  the  hum  of  a  spinning  wheel, 
accompanied  by  a  scrap  of  an  old  French  (•hans(Mi,  which  I  liavt, 
heard  many  a  time  among  the  peasantry  of  Langnt'doe,  douht- 
less  a  traditional  song,  brought  over  by  the  lirst  Frenc  h  eiiii 
grants,  and  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation. 

Half  a  dozen  young  lasses  emerged  from  the  adjacent  dwell- 
ings, reminding  me,  by  their  ligiit  step  and  gay  costume,  of  seeiierf 
in  ancient  France,  where  taste  in  dress  comes  natural  to  evoiv 
class  of  females.  The  trim  bodice  antl  colored  petticoat,  ami 
little  apron,  with  its  pockets  to  receive  the  hands  when  in  ;iu 
attitude  for  conversation  ;  the  colored  kerchief  woimd  tasteliilly 
round  the  head,  with  a  coquettish  knot  perking  al>ove  one  ear: 
and  the  neat  slipper  and  tight  drawn  stocking,  with  its  hiaid  of 
narrow  ribbon  embracing  the  ankle  where  it  peeps  from  its  niys 


.1  s 


THE  CREOLE   VILLAGE. 


187 


|ini  hofoie  be 

Martin,  ;u),| 

'"«  little  (lo-r 

('firosscd  Ii'v 
|ni:il  tlic  m,;. 

hero  lie  w.h 
|.'il)oiit  his  „!,: 

wide  circle 

tlioir  lioinc 
'iinicnsioiis, 
Ic  house  li;„| 
r*"iish  C(iiii- 
^tncul  ;il)()(l,., 
poor  devils 
'he  cusl-oir 
ilMiy. 
'  ;i  h%noii  of 

■ty  .'Hid    o;iy- 

"d  flicird',.. 
Joud  iiossip 

"•••,^*',  I  took 
ii«t's  were  m 
Jis,  hut  most 
>ii.s,  ploiii-lis, 
'•lid  iiico,, 
'"light  rroii) 
t'ly  looks  of 

iiiin^-  wheel, 
'l»i<'h  I  liiivL 
'doc,  doul.t, 
'V'licli   Cllli 
ion. 

cent  dwei^ 
«',  of  scenes 
:d  to  every 
'ti('o;it,  ,•111(1 
V'heii  ill  ;iu 
I  t;isrenilly 
'-'  one  ear: 
s  hi'uid  of 
in  its  riiys 


terious  curtain.     It  ia  from  this  ambush  that  Cupid  sends  his 
niost  inciting  arrows. 

While  r  was  musing  upon  tlie  recollections  thus  accidentally 
giiimnonod  un  1  heard  the  sound  of  a  fiddle  from  the  mansion 
of  Compere  ^.J.artin,  the  signal,  no  doubt,  for  a  joyous  gather- 
ing. I  was  disposed  to  turn  my  steps  thither,  and  witness  the 
festivities  of  one  of  the  very  few  villages  1  had  met  with  in  my 
wide  tour,  that  was  yet  poor  enough  to  be  merry  ;  but  the  bell 
of  the  steamboat  sunnnoned  me  to  re-embark. 

As  we  swept  away  from  the  shore,  1  cast  back  a  wistful  eye 
upon  the  moss-grown  roofs  and  ancient  elms  of  the  village,  and 
prayed  that  the  inhabitants  might  long  retain  their  happy  igno- 
rance, their  absence  of  all  enterprise  and  improvement,  their 
respect  for  the  fiddle,  and  their  contempt  for  the  almighty 
dollar.'  1  fear,  however,  my  prayer  is  doomed  to  be  of  no  avaiL 
In  a  little  while  the  steamboat  whirled  me  to  an  American  town, 
just  springing  into  bustling  and  prosperous  existence. 

The  surrounding  forest  had  been  laid  out  m  town  lots  ;  frames 
of  wooden  buildings  were  rising  from  among  stumps  and  burnt 
trees.  The  place  already  boasted  a  court-house,  a  jail,  and  two 
hiuiks,  all  built  of  pine  boards,  on  the  model  of  Grecian  temples. 
Tlure  were  rival  hotels,  rival  churches,  and  rival  newspapers  ; 
together  with  the  usual  number  of  judges,  and  generals,  and 
governors ;  not  to  speak  of  dc'^^ors  by  the  dozen,  and  lawyers 
by  the  score. 

The  place,  I  was  told,  was  in  an  astonishing  career  of  im- 
provement, with  a  canal  and  two  railroads  in  embryo.  Lots 
doublcil  in  jirice  every  week  ;  everybody  was  speculating  in 
hind  ;  everybody  was  rich  ;  and  everybody  was  growing  richer. 
The  connnunity,  however,  was  torn  to  pieces  by  new  doctrines 
in  religion  and  in  political  economy  ;  there  were  camp  meet- 
ings, and  agrarian  meetings ;  and  an  election  was  at  hand, 
wliicli,  it  was  expected,  would  throw  the  whole  country  into  a 
paroxysm. 

Alas  !  with  such  an  enterprising  neighbor,  what  is  to  become 
of  the  poor  little  Creole  village  ! 


'  ThiH  i>hriise,  um-d  for  the  llrst  time  in  thin  skotch,  hr.s  since  iJaHscd  into  current 
(■irculatioi,,  ami  t)y  homh'  Ilib  Ix'on  quOHtioncd  an  savoring  of  irrevori'ncp.  'i'hp  author, 
liuTcfiiri',  owes  it  to  iiis  ortiiodoxy  to  di-ciare  lliat  no  irreverence  was  intended  even  to 
ilie  dullar  itHulf ;  wliicli  he  in  aware  it  daily  bucomiiig  more  uuU  more  au  object  of  wor- 
•hij). 


*     ■    • 


i'      i 


188 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


A  CONTENTED   MAN. 


IV  S 


In  the  garden  of  the  Tuilerios  there  is  a  sunny  corner  iindor 
the  wall  of  a  terrace  which  fronts  the  south.  Alonji  the  wall  is 
a  range  of  henches  commanding  a  view  of  the  walks  and  avcnups 
of  the  garden.  This  genial  nook  is  a  place  of  great  resort  in 
the  latter  part  of  autumn,  and  in  fine  days  in  winter,  as  it  socms 
to  retain  the  flavor  of  departed  sunnnor.  On  a  calm,  I)ri2;ht 
morning  it  is  quite  alive  with  nursery-maids  and  their  playful 
little  charges.  Hither  also  resort  a  number  of  ancient  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  who,  with  the  laudable  thrift  in  small  ploasuros 
and  small  expenses  for  which  the  French  are  to  be  noted,  come 
here  to  enjoy  sunshine  and  save  firewood.  Here  may  often  he 
seen  some  cavalier  of  the  old  school,  when  the  sunbeams  have 
warmed  his  blood  into  something  like  a  glow,  tluttering  ahoiil 
like  a  frost-bitten  moth  before  the  fire,  putting  forth  a  foohle 
show  of  gallantry  among  the  antiquated  dames,  and  now  and 
then  eying  the  buxom  nursery-maids  with  what  might  almost 
be  mistaken  for  an  air  of  libertinism. 

Among  the  habitual  frequenters  of  this  place  I  had  often 
remarked  an  old  gentleman,  whose  dress  was  decidedly  anli- 
revolutional.  He  wore  the  three-cornered  cocked  hat  of  the 
ancien  regime;  his  hair  was  frizzed  over  each  ear  into  ailes  de 
pigeon,  a  style  strongly  savoring  of  Rourbonism  ;  and  a  queue 
stuck  out  behind,  the  loyalty  of  which  was  not  to  be  disputed. 
His  dress,  though  ancient,  had  an  air  of  decayed  gentility,  and 
I  observed  that  he  took  his  snuff  out  of  an  elegant  though  old- 
fashioned  gold  box.  He  appeared  to  be  the  most  popular  man 
on  the  walk.  He  had  a  compliment  for  e\ery  old  lady,  he  kissed 
every  child,  and  he  patted  every  little  dog  on  the  head  ;  for  chil- 
dren and  little  dogs  are  very  important  nicinbcrs  of  society  in 
France.  I  must  observe,  however,  that  ho  seldom  kissed  a 
child  without,  at  the  same  time,  pinching  the  nmsery-raaid's 
cheek  ;  a  Frenchman  of  the  old  school  never  forgets  his  devoirs 
to  the  sex. 

I  had  taken  a  liking  to  this  old  gentleman.  There  was  an 
habitual  expression  of  benevolence  in  his  face  which  I  have  very 
frequently  remarked  in  these  relics  .)f  tiie  politer  days  of  Franc^e 
The  constant  interchange  of  those  thoiisinKl  little  courtesies 
which  imperceptibly  sweeten  life  have  a  happy  effect  upon  the 
features,  and  spread  a  mellow  evening  charm  over  the  wrinkles 
of  old  age. 


\' 


A    CONTENTED  MAN. 


189 


'ornor  iindpr 
?:  the  wall  is 
and  avciiups 
fit  resort  in 
'  :>s  it  socms 
^ahn,  hrinjlit 
•if'ir  playful 
cient  I:i(|i,.,, 

II  pleasures 

lotcd,  come 

'•'ly  often  ho 

Ix-ams  have 

ering  ahout 

I'th  a  feohlo 

11(1  now  and 

light  almost 

I  had  often 
idodly  anli- 
hat   of  the 
nto  ailes  de 
md  a  queue 
)e  disputed 
Mitility,  and 
thongh  old- 
)opnlar  man 
y,  he  kissed 
fl ;  for  chil- 
f  society  in 
m  kissed  a 
sery-maid's 
his  devoirs 

TO  was  an 
I  have  very 
of  France 
courtesies 
t  upon  the 
le  wrinkles 


Where  there  is  a  favorable  predisposition  one  soon  forms  a 
kind  of  tacit  intimacy  by  often  meeting  on  the  same  walks. 
Once  or  twice  I  accommodated  him  with  a  ben  jh,  after  which 
we  touched  hats  on  passing  each  other ;  at  length  we  got  so  far 
as  to  take  a  pinch  of  snuff  together  out  of  his  box,  which  is 
equivalent  to  eating  salt  together  in  the  East ;  from  that  time 
our  acquaintance  was  established. 

I  now  became  his  frequent  companion  in  his  morning  prome- 
nades, and  derived  much  amusement  from  his  good-humored 
remarks  on  men  and  manners.  One  morning,  as  we  were  stroll- 
ing through  an  alley  of  the  Tuileries,  with  the  autumnal  breeze 
whirling  the  yellow  leaves  about  our  path,  my  companion  fell 
into  a  peculiarly  communicative  vein,  and  gave  me  several 
particulars  of  his  history.  He  had  once  been  wealthy,  and 
possessed  of  a  fine  estate  in  the  country  and  a  noble  hotel  in 
Paris ;  but  the  revolution,  which  effected  so  many  disastrous 
changes,  stripped  him  of  every  thing.  He  was  secretly  de- 
nounced by  his  own  steward  during  a  sanguinary  period  of  the 
revolution,  and  a  number  of  the  bloodhounds  of  the  Convention 
were  sent  to  arrest  him.  He  received  private  intelligence  of 
their  approach  in  time  to  effect  his  escape.  He  landed  in  Eng- 
land without  money  or  friends,  but  considered  himself  singu- 
larly fortunate  in  having  his  head  upon  his  shoulders  ;  several 
of  his  neighbors  having  been  guillotined  as  a  punishment  for 
being  rich. 

When  he  reached  London  he  had  but  a  louis  in  his  pocket, 
and  no  prospect  of  getting  another.  He  ate  a  solitary  dinner 
of  beefsteak,  and  was  almost  poisoned  by  port  wine,  which 
from  its  color  he  had  mistaken  for  claret.  The  clingy  look  of 
the  chop-house,  and  of  the  little  mahogany-colored  box  in  which 
he  ate  his  dinner,  contrasted  sadly  with  the  gay  saloons  of 
Paris.  Every  thing  looked  gloomy  and  disheartening.  Poverty 
stared  him  in  the  face  ;  he  turned  over  the  few  shillings  he  had 
of  change ;  did  not  know  what  was  to  become  of  him  ;  and  — 
went  to  the  theatre  ! 

He  took  his  seat  in  the  pit,  listened  attentively  to  a  tragedy 
of  which  he  did  not  understand  a  word,  and  which  seemed  made 
up  of  fighting,  and  stabbing,  and  scene-shifting,  and  began  to 
feel  his  spirits  sinking  within  him  ;  when,  casting  his  eyes  into 
the  orchestra,  what  was  liis  surprise  to  recognize  en  old  friend 
and  neighbor  in  the  very  act  of  extorting  music  fvom  a  huge 
violoncello. 

As  soon  as  the  evening's  performance  was  over  he  tapped  his 
friend  ou  the  shoulder ;  they  kissed  each  other  on  each  cheek, 


I     ;) 


' 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-S) 


Y 


A  4^^^ 
<  ^^4^ 


^f. 


fA 


A 


1.0 


I.I 


11.25 


2.5 


u: 


40 


20 

1.8 


1.4    11.6 


Hiotographic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


'^.% 


190 


THE  CRAYON  PAPERS. 


<  I  ' 


i     -'4 


I  ' 


*  I 


and  the  musician  took  him  home,  and  shared  his  lodgings  with 
him.  He  had  learned  music  as  an  accomplishment ;  by  his 
friend's  advice  he  now  turned  to  it  as  a  means  of  support.  He 
procured  a  violin,  offered  himself  for  the  orchestra,  was  received, 
and  again  considered  himself  one  of  the  most  fortunate  men 
upon  earth. 

Here  tlierefore  he  lived  for  many  years  during  the  ascend- 
erioy  of  the  terrible  Napoleon.  He  foimJ  several  emigrants 
liviug,  like  himself,  by  tlie  exercise  of  their  talents.  They 
associated  together,  talked  of  France  and  of  old  times,  and 
endeavored  to  keep  up  a  semblance  of  Parisian  life  in  the  cen- 
tre of  London. 

They  dined  at  a  miserable  cheap  French  restaurant  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Leicester-square,  where  they  were  served  with 
a  caricature  of  French  cookery.  They  took  their  promenade  in 
8t.  James's  Park,  and  endeavored  to  fancy  it  the  Tuileries ;  in 
short,  they  made  shift  to  accommodate  tiiemselves  to  every  thing 
but  an  English  Sunday.  Indeed  the  old  gentleman  seemed  to 
have  nothing  to  say  against  the  Englisli,  whom  he  aflirmed  to  Ite 
braves  gens ;  and  he  mingled  so  much  among  them  that  at  the 
end  of  twenty  yoars  he  could  speak  their  language  almost  well 
enough  to  be  understood. 

The  downfall  of  Napoleon  was  another  epoch  in  I  is  Hfe.  He 
had  considered  himself  a  fortunate  man  to  make  his  escape  pen- 
niless out  of  France,  and  he  considered  himself  foitunate  to  bo 
able  to  return  penniless  into  it.  It  is  true  that  lie  found  his 
Parisian  hotel  had  passed  through  several  hands  during  the 
vicissitudes  of  the  times,  so  as  to  be  Ixiyond  the  reach  of  re- 
covery ;  but  then  he  had  been  noticed  l)enignantly  by  govern- 
ment, and  had  a  pension  of  several  hundred  francs,  upon  which, 
with  careful  management,  he  lived  independently,  and,  as  far 
as  I  could  judge,  happily. 

As  his  once  splendid  hotel  was  now  occupied  as  a  Mtel  (/ami, 
he  hired  a  small  chamber  in  the  attic ;  it  was  but,  as  he  said, 
changing  his  bedroom  up  two  pair  of  stairs  —  he  was  still  in  liis 
own  house.  His  room  was  decorated  with  pictures  of  several 
beauties  of  former  times,  Avith  whom  he  professed  to  have  been 
on  favorable  terms :  among  them  was  a  favorite  opera-dancer ; 
who  had  been  the  admiration  of  Paris  at  the  breaking  out  of  the 
revolution.  She  had  been  a  protkj^e  of  my  friend,  and  one  of 
the  few  of  his  youthful  favorites  who  had  survived  the  lapse 
of  time  and  its  various  vicissitudes.  They  had  renewed  their 
acquaintance,  and  she  now  and  then  visited  him  ;  l)ut  the  beauti- 
ful Psyche,  once  the  fashion  of  the  day  and  the  idol  of  the  itar- 


A   CONTENTED  MAN. 


191 


odgings  with 
lent;  by  his 
upport.  He 
ivas  received, 
H'tunute  men 

the  ascend- 
iii  emigrtmts 
euts.  They 
1  times,  and 
i  in  tlie  cen- 

irant  in  the 
served  witli 
>ronienade  in 
Tuileries ;  in 

0  every  thin-,' 
n  seemed  to 
iftirmed  to  he 

1  that  at  tlie 
;  ahnost  woll 

I  is  life.  He 
5  escape  pen- 
tun  ate  to  he 
he  found  lii.s 

durinji  the 
read)  of  re- 
ly by  oovern- 
,  upon  wliich, 

and,  as  fur 

1  h6ld  fjorm\ 
,  as  lie  said, 
IS  still  in  his 
!s  of  several 

0  have  been 
|)era-(hnH'er ; 
ijj;  out  of  the 
,  and  one  of 
ed  the  lapse 
.'uewed  their 
t  the  beauti- 

1  of  the  par' 


terre,  was  now  a  shrivelled,  little  old  woman,  warped  in  the  back, 
and  with  a  hooked  nose. 

The  old  gentleman  was  a  devout  attendant  upon  lev6es ;  he 
was  most  zealous  in  his  loyalty,  and  could  not  speak  of  the 
royal  family  without  a  burst  of  enthusiasm,  for  he  still  felt  to- 
i^rards  them  as  his  companions  in  exile.  As  to  his  poverty  he 
iiiadc  light  of  it,  and  indeed  had  a  good-humored  way  of  consoU 
iiig  himself  for  every  cross  and  privation.  If  he  had  lost  his, 
chateau  in  the  country,  he  had  half  a  dozen  royal  palaces,  as  it 
were,  at  his  command.  He  had  Versailles  and  8t.  Cloud  for  his 
country  resorts,  and  the  shady  alleys  of  the  Tuileries,  and  the 
Luxembourg  for  his  town  recreation.  Thus  all  his  promenades 
and  relaxations  were  magnificent,  yet  cost  nothing. 

When  I  walk  through  these  tine  gardens,  said  he,  I  have  only 
to  fancy  myself  the  owner  of  them,  and  they  are  mine.  AJl 
these  gay  crowds  are  my  visitors,  and  I  defy  the  grand  seigneur 
himself  to  display  a  greater  variety  of  beauty.  Nay,  what  is 
hotter,  I  have  not  the  trouble  of  entertaining  them.  My  estate 
is  a  perfect  Sans  Souci,  where  every  one  does  as  he  pleases,  and 
no  one  troubles  the  owner.  All  Paris  is  my  theatre,  and  pre- 
sents me  with  a  continual  spectacle.  I  have  a  table  si)read  for 
nie  in  every  street,  and  thousands  of  waiters  ready  to  fly  at  my 
hidding.  When  my  servants  have  waited  upon  me  I  pay  tliem, 
discharge  them,  and  there's  an  end  ;  I  have  no  fears  of  their 
wronging  or  pilfering  me  when  my  back  is  turned.  Upon  the 
^vliole,  said  the  old  gentleman,  with  a  smile  of  infinite  good- 
humor,  when  I  think  upon  the  various  risks  I  have  run,  and  the 
manner  in  which  I  have  escaped  them  ;  when  I  recollect  all  that 
I  have  suffered,  and  consider  all  that  I  at  present  enjoy,  I  can- 
not but  look  upon  myself  as  a  man  of  singular  good  fortune. 

Such  was  the  brief  history  of  this  practical  piiilosopher,  and 
it  is  a  picture  of  many  a  Frenchman  ruined  by  the  revolution. 
The  French  appear  to  have  a  greater  facility  than  most  men  u: 
accommodating  themselves  to  the  reverses  of  life,  and  of  ex- 
trading  honey  out  of  the  bitter  things  of  this  world.  The  first 
shock  of  calamity  is  apt  to  overwhelm  them,  but  when  it  is  onco 
past,  their  natural  buoyancy  of  feeling  soon  brings  them  to  the 
surface.  This  may  be  called  the  result  of  levity  of  character, 
Init  it  answers  the  end  of  reconciling  us  to  misfortune,  and  if  it 
lie  not  true  philosophy,  it  is  something  almost  as  elllcacious. 
KviT  since  I  have  heard  the  story  of  my  little  Frenchman,  I  have 
Ireasured  it  up  in  my  heari ;  and  I  thank  my  stars  I  have  at 
length  found  what  I  had  long  considered  as  not  to  be  found  on 
earth  —  a.  contented  man. 


'<  .'1.  '■    ■ 


■  i' 


!1 


^  ir 


192 


THE    CRAYON    PAPERS. 


^n 


If 


P.S.  There  is  no  calculating  on  human  happiness.  Sinct 
writing  the  foregoing,  the  law  of  indemnity  has  been  passed, 
and  my  friend  restored  to  a  great  part  of  his  fortune.  I  was 
absent  from  Paris  at  the  time,  but  on  my  return  hastened  to 
congratulate  him.  I  found  him  magnificently  lodged  on  the  first 
floor  of  his  hotel.  I  was  ushered,  by  a  servant  in  livery, 
through  splendid  saloons,  to  a  cabinet  richly  furnished,  where 
I  found  my  little  Frenchman  reclining  on  a  couch.  He  received 
me  with  his  uf^ual  cordiality  ;  but  I  saw  the  gayety  and  benevo- 
lence of  his  countenance  had  fled ;  he  had  an  eye  full  of  care 
and  anxiety. 

1  congratulated  him  on  his  good  fortune.  "  Good  fortune?" 
echoed  he ;  "bah !  I  have  been  plundered  of  a  princel}'  fortune, 
and  they  give  me  a  pittance  as  an  indemnity." 

Alas !  I  found  my  late  poor  and  contented  friend  one  of  the 
richest  and  most  miserable  men  in  Paris.  Instead  of  rejoicing 
in  the  ample  competency  restored  to  him,  he  is  daily  repining 
at  the  superfluity  withheld.  He  no  longer  wanders  in  happy 
idleness  about  Paris,  but  is  a  repining  attendant  in  the  ante- 
chambers of  ministers.  His  loyalty  has  evaporated  with  his 
gayety  ;  he  screws  his  mouth  when  the  Bourbons  are  mentioned, 
and  even  shrugs  his  shoulders  when  he  hears  the  praises  of  the 
king.  In  a  word,  he  is  one  of  the  many  philosophers  undone 
by  the  law  of  indemnity,  and  his  case  is  desperate,  for  I  doubt 
whether  even  another  reverse  of  fortune,  which  should  restore 
him  to  poverty,  could  make  him  again  a  happy  man. 


.;*      W' 


'•I 


SH 


ness.  Sincb 
been  passed, 
tune.     I  was 

hastened  to 
d  on  the  first 
it  in  livery, 
lislied,  where 

He  received 

and  boDovo- 

j  full  of  care 

3d  fortune?" 
icely  fortune, 

id  one  of  the 
1  of  rejoicing 
laily  repining 
ers  in  happy 
in  the  ante- 
ited  with  his 
re  mentioned, 
[)raises  of  tlie 
phers  undone 
3,  for  I  doubt 
hould  restore 

Q. 


WOLFERT'S    ROOST 

AND 

MISCELLANIES 


i  -• 


I '  '■ 


;  -ii 


n' 

1 

:l 

I'i    ' 

1  ■ 

i 

s  j  ■ 

I 

M 

I.J 

akl 

ii"; 

ACb 

Sleei 

BiKDl 

Reco 
Aben 

TUE 

The 
Nati 
Desi 
SPA^ 
Leg  I 

COMl 

Cons 
A  Li 
The 
The 
Pel) 
The 
The 
Leg 
Cod 


1  1 

)i 

1 

1 

I  is 

.*  ■ 

'  i  •  1 

■ 

A  i 

h 

I 

tf 

1, 

CONTENTS. 


A  Chronicle  of  Wolfert's  Roost ,    .    11 

Sleepy  Hollow .    24 

Birds  of  Spring 34 

Recollections  of  the  Alhambra 88 

Abencerraoe 41 

The  Enchanted  Island 61 

The  Adelantado  of  the  Seven  Cities 63 

National  Nomenclature 67 

Desultory  Thoughts  on  Criticism 72 

Spanish  Romance .    75 

Legend  of  Don  Munio  Sancho  de  Hinojosa 78 

Commltjipaw 83 

Conspiracy  of  the  Cocked  Hats 89 

A  Legend  of  Communipaw 95 

The  Bermudas      105 

The  Three  Kings  of  Bermuda Ill 

Pelayo  and  the  Merchant's  Daughter 115 

The  Knight  of  Malta 123 

The  Grand  Prior  of  Minorca •    ....  125 

Legend  of  the  Engulphed  Convent 137 

Count  Van  Hokn 142 


i   !t 


1  '-M   ' 

it: 

if 

' :  i 

*i  i  ■ 

a  ii^ 

i- 

iff   ^ 

■  f\ 

1  u 

tm  I: 

'  <        i 

wSiut    i,' 

fit 

li 

WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


A  CHRONICLE  OF  WOLFERT'S  ROOST. 

To  THE  Editor  op  the  Knickerbocker. 

Sir:  I  have  observed  that  as  a  man  advances  in  life,  he  is 
subject  to  a  kind  of  plethora  of  the  mind,  doubtless  occasioned 
by  the  vast  accumulation  of  wisdom  and  experience  upon  the 
brain.  Hence  he  is  apt  to  become  narrative  and  admonitory, 
that  is  to  say,  fond  of  telling  long  stories,  and  of  doling  out 
advice,  to  the  small  profit  and  great  annoyance  of  his  friends. 
As  I  have  a  great  horror  of  becoming  the  oracle,  or,  more 
technically  speaking,  the  "  bore,"  of  the  domestic  circle,  and 
would  much  rather  bestow  my  wisdom  and  tediousness  upon 
the  world  at  large,  I  have  always  sought  to  ease  off  this  sur- 
charge of  the  intellect  by  means  of  my  pen,  and  hence  have 
inflicted  divers  gossiping  volumes  upon  the  patience  of  the  pub- 
lic. I  am  tired,  however,  of  writing  volumes ;  they  do  not 
atford  exactly  the  relief  I  require ;  there  is  too  much  prepara- 
tion, arrangement,  and  parade,  in  this  set  form  of  coming  before 
the  public.  I  am  growing  too  indolent  and  unambitious  for  any 
thing  that  requires  labor  or  display.  I  have  thought,  therefore, 
of  securing  to  myself  a  snug  corner  in  some  periodical  work 
where  I  might,  as  it  were,  loll  at  my  case  in  my  elbow-chair, 
and  chat  sociably  with  the  public,  as  with  an  old  friend,  on 
any  chance  subject  that  might  pop  into  my  brain. 

In  looking  around,  for  this  purpose,  upon  the  various  excel- 
lent periodicals  with  which  our  country  abounds,  my  eye  was 
struck  by  the  title  of  your  work  —  "The  Knickerbocker." 
My  heart  leaped  at  the  sight. 

DiEDRiCH  Knickerbocker,  Sir,  was  one  of  my  earliest  and 
most  valued  friends,  and  the  recollection  of  him  is  associated 
with  some  of  the  pleasantest  scenes  of  my  youthful  days.  To 
explain  this,  and  to  show  how  I  came  into  possession  of  sundry 
of  his  posthumous  works,  which  I  have  from  time  to  time  given 


n 


6 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


\b 


'  '1' 


I't'    ' 


to  the  world,  permit  me  to  relate  a  few  particulars  of  our  early 
intercourse.  I  give  them  with  the  more  coufidcnce,  as  I  know 
the  interest  you  take  in  that  departed  worthy,  whose  name  aiul 
efflgy  are  stamped  upon  your  title-page,  and  as  they  will  Ik; 
found  important  to  the  better  understanding  and  relishing  divers 
communications  I  may  have  to  make  to  you. 

My  llrst  acquaintance  with  that  great  and  good  man,  for 
such  1  may  venture  to  call  him,  now  that  the  lapse  of  some 
thirty  years  has  shrouded  his  name  with  venerable  auti(iuity, 
and  the  popular  voice  has  elevated  him  to  the  rank  of  the 
classic  historians  of  yore,  my  lirst  acquaintance  with  him  was 
formed  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson,  not  far  from  the  wizard 
K'gioii  of  hileepy  Hollow.  He  had  come  there  in  the  course  of 
his  researches  among  the  Dutch  neighl)orhoods  for  materials 
for  his  immortal  history.  For  this  purpose,  he  was  ransacking 
the  archives  of  one  of  the  most  ancient  and  historical  man- 
sions in  the  country.  It  was  a  lowly  edifice,  built  in  the  tiino 
of  the  Dutch  dynasty,  and  stood  on  a  green  bank,  overshad- 
owed by  trees,  from  which  it  peeped  forth  upon  the  (I real 
Tappaan  Zee,  so  famous  among  early  Dutch  navigators.  A 
bright  pure  spring  welled  up  at  the  foot  of  the  green  bank  ;  a 
wild  brook  came  babbling  down  a  neighboring  ravine,  and 
threw  itself  into  a  little  woody  cove,  in  front  of  the  mansion. 
It  was  indeed  as  quiet  and  sheltered  a  nook  as  the  heart  of  man 
could  require,  in  whieii  to  take  refuge  fronj  the  cares  and 
troubles  of  the  world ;  and  as  such,  it  had  been  chosen  in  old 
times,  by  Wolfert  Acker,  one  of  the  privy  councillcrs  of  the  re- 
nowned Peter  Stuyvesant. 

This  worthy  but  ill-starred  man  had  led  a  weary  and  worried 
life,  throughout  the  stormy  reign  of  the  chivalric  Peter,  being 
one  of  those  unlucky  wights  with  whom  the  world  is  ever  at 
variance,  and  who  are  kept  in  a  continual  fume  and  fret,  by 
die  wickedness  of  mankind.  At  the  time  of  the  subjugation 
of  the  province  by  the  English,  he  retired  hither  in  high  dud- 
geon ;  with  the  bitter  determination  to  bury  himself  from  tlic 
world,  and  live  here  in  peace  and  quietness  for  the  remainder 
of  his  days.  In  token  of  this  fixed  resolution,  he  inscribed 
over  his  door  the  favorite  Dutch  motto,  "  Lust  in  Rust,"  (pleas- 
ure in  repose.)  The  mansion  was  thence  called  "  Wolfert' s 
Kust "  —  Wolfert's  Rest;  but  in  process  of  time,  the  name 
was  vitiated  into  Wolfert's  Roost,  probably  from  its  quaint 
cock-loft  look,  or  from  its  having  a  weather-cock  perched  on 
every  gable.  This  name  it  continued  to  bear,  long  after  the 
unlucky  Wolfert  was  driven  forth  ouce  more  upon  a  wrangling 


<  !»   1 


[\ 


lES. 

of  our  Parly 
as  I  know 
Je  nuine  and 
HH'y  will  lu! 
ishiug  divers 

>tl   man,   for 
Jse  of  some 
«  auti(jiiity, 
rank  of  the 
itii  liiiii  was 
tile  wizard 
ic  course  of 
'or  niateiial.s 
i  ran.sa('kin<'' 
torical  rnan- 
iu  the  time 
|K,  oversliad- 
tlie   (Jreat 
k'igalors.     A 
-•en  bank  ;  a 
ravine,    and 
lie  mansion, 
leart  of  man 
*    cares   and 
'iosen  in  old 
IS  of  the  re- 

and  worried 
Peter,  being 
.1  is  ever  at 
uid  fret,  by 
sul)jugation 
n  high  dtul- 
'If  from  the 
B  remainder 
le  inscribed 
St,"  (pleas- 
"Wolfert's 
,   the  name 
I   its  quaint 
perched  on 
g  after  the 
ii  wrangling 


A   CHRONICLE  OF  WOLFERT'S   ROOST.  1 

world,  by  the  tongue  of  a  termagant  wife  ;  for  it  passed  into  a 
proverb  through  the  n«ighborhood,  and  has  been  handed  down 
by  tradition,  that  the  cock  of  the  Roost  was  the  most  ben- 
pecked  bird  in  the  country. 

This  primitive  and  historical  mansion  has  since  passed  through 
many  changes  and  trials,  which  ;^  may  br  my  lot  hereafter  "to 
notice.  At  the  time  of  the  sojourn  of  Diedrich  Knickerbocker  it 
was  in  possession  of  the  gallant  family  of  the  Van  Tassels,  who 
have  figured  so  conspicuously  in  his  writings.  What  appears  to 
have  given  it  peculiar  value,  in  his  eyes,  was  the  ich  treasury 
of  historical  facts  here  secretly  hoarded  up,  like  buried  gold  ; 
for  it  is  said  that  "NVolfert  Acker,  when  he  retreated  from  New 
Amsterdam,  carried  off  with  him  many  of  the  records  and  jour- 
nals of  the  province,  pertaining  to  the  Dutch  dynasty  ;  swearing 
that  they  should  never  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  English.  These, 
like  the  lost  books  of  Livy,  had  baffled  the  research  of  former 
historians  :  but  these  did  I  find  the  indefatigable  Diedrich  dili- 
gently deciphering.  He  was  already  a  sage  in  yeais  and  G\\^e- 
rience,  I  but  an  idle  stripling ;  yet  he  did  not  desi)isc  my  youth 
and  ignorance,  but  took  me  kindly  by  the  hand,  and  led  me 
gently  into  those  paths  of  local  and  traditional  lore  which  he 
was  so  fond  of  exploring.  I  sat  with  him  in  his  little  chamber 
at  the  Roost,  and  watched  the  antiquarian  patience  and  perse- 
verance with  which  he  deciphered  those  venera))le  Dutch  docu- 
ments, worse  than  Herculanean  manuscripts.  1  sat  with  him 
l)y  the  spring,  at  the  foot  of  the  green  bank,  and  listened  to 
his  heroic  tales  about  the  worthies  of  the  olden  time,  the  pala- 
dins of  New  Amsterdam.  I  accompanied  him  in  his  legendary 
researches  about  Tarrytown  and  Sing-Sing,  and  explored  with 
him  the  spell-bound  recesses  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  I  was  present 
at  many  of  his  conferences  with  the  good  old  Dutch  burghers 
and  their  wives,  from  whom  he  derived  many  of  those  marvel- 
lous facts  not  laid  down  in  books  or  records,  and  which  give 
such  superior  value  and  authenticity  to  his  history,  over  all 
others  that  have  been  written  concerning  the  New  Netherlands. 

But  let  me  check  my  proneness  to  dilate  upon  this  favorite 
theme  ;  I  may  recur  to  it  hereafter.  Suffice  it  to  say,  the  inti- 
macy thus  formed,  continued  for  a  considerable  time ;  and  in 
company  with  the  worthy  Diedrich,  I  visited  many  of  the  places 
celebrated  by  his  pen.  The  currents  of  our  lives  at  length 
diverged.  He  remained  at  home  to  complete  his  mighty  work, 
while  a  vagrant  fancy  led  me  to  wander  about  the  world.  Many, 
many  years  elapsed,  before  I  returned  to  the  parent  soil.  In 
the  interim,  the  venerable  historian  of  the  New  Netherlands 


m 

'   \ 

-\\ 

■il 

1  H 

1 

WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  AflSCELLANIES. 


X  ': 


had  been  gathered  to  his  fathers,  hut  his  name  hud  risen  to  re 
Down.  His  native  eity,  that  city  in  whieii  he  so  iiiueh  deliiilitiMl. 
had  decreed  all  manner  of  eostly  honors  to  his  memory.  I  lonn,} 
his  efldgy  imprinted  upon  new-year  cakes,  and  dcvourcil  witli 
eager  relish  ))y  holiday  urehins  ;  a  great  oystcr-liousc  lion,  tlic 
name  of  "  Kiiiekerboeker  Hall ;  "  and  I  narrowly  eHe!i|)C(l  tli» 
pleasure  of  being  run  over  by  a  Knickerbocker  ouniibiis  1 

Proud  of  having  associated  with  a  man  who  had  aciiicvcil 
sueh  greatness,  I  now  recalled  our  early  intimacy  with  b-nfold 
pleasure,  and  sought  to  revisit  the  scenes  we  had  trodden  to- 
gether. The  most  important  of  these  was  the  mansion  of  tlic 
Van  Tassels,  the  Roost  of  the  unfortunate  Wolfert.  'riiiic, 
which  changes  all  things,  is  but  slow  in  its  operation:,  upon  a 
Dutchman's  dwelling.  I  found  the  venerable  and  (|uaiiit  litUi; 
edifice  much  as  I  had  seen  it  during  the  sojourn  of  Diedridi. 
There  stood  his  ell)ow-chair  in  the  corner  of  the  room  lie  luuj 
occupied ;  the  old-fashioneil  Dutch  writin;;-desk  at  wliieli  he 
had  pored  over  the  chronicles  of  the  IManliattoes  ;  there  was 
the  old  wooden  chest,  with  the  archives  left  l)y  Wolfert  Acker, 
many  of  which,  however,  had  been  fired  otf  as  waddinu;  fnun 
the  long  duck  gun  of  the  Van  Tassels.  The  scene  aiound  l!ie 
mansion  was  still  the  same;  the  green  bank  ;  the  spring  besido 
which  I  had  listened  to  the  legendary  narratives  of  the  liisto- 
rian  ;  the  wild  brook  babbling  down  to  the  woody  cove,  and  llie 
overshadowing  locust  trees,  half  shutting  out  the  prospect  of 
the  great  Tappaan  Zee. 

As  1  looked  round  upon  the  scene,  my  heart  yearned  at  the 
recollection  of  my  departed  friend,  and  1  wistfully  eyed  llie 
mansion  which  he  had  inhabited,  and  which  wa?  fast  moulder- 
ing to  decay.  The  thought  struck  me  to  arrest  the  dcsolatinj; 
hand  of  Time  ;  to  rescue  the  historic  pile  from  utter  ruin,  and 
to  make  it  the  closing  scene  of  my  wanderings  ;  a  qui^^t  lioiiie, 
where  1  might  enjoy  "lust  in  rust"  for  the  remainder  of  my 
days.  It  is  true,  the  fate  of  the  unlucky  Wolfert  passed  across 
my  mind ;  but  I  consoled  myself  with  the  refl(!Ction  that  I  was 
a  bachelor,  and  that  I  had  no  termagant  wife  to  disi)ute  the 
sovereignty  of  the  Roost  with  me. 

I  have  become  possessor  of  the  Roost.  I  have  r(>paired  and 
renovated  it  with  religious  care,  in  the  genuine  Dutch  style, 
and  have  adorned  and  illustrated  it  with  sundry  relics  of  tiie 
glorious  days  of  the  New  Netherlands.  A  venerable  wealiier- 
cock,  of  portly  Dutch  dimensions,  which  once  battled  with  the 
wind  on  the  top  of  the  Stadt-House  of  New  Amsterdam,  in  tlie 
time  of  Peter  JStuyvesaut,  now  erects  its  crest  on  the  gable  enj 


f  I 


?«*J. 


A  CHRONICLE  OF  WOLFERTS  ROOST. 


iscn  to  re-. 
•Icliiililcl. 

I    loillKi 

'urcil  Willi 
«'  I'orc  tlic 
scapcl  tliy 
•us! 

:icliic\(.,l 
itii  l<'iif,,l,| 
I'oddcii  t(). 
ioii  of  III,. 
''••     Tinu', 

li:.  upon  ;i 
iiMiril,  little 
Dicilricli. 
oiii  li(>  had 
wliicli  In- 

tlu'ic  was 
"cil  Acker, 
hVinix,  fioiii 
iU'ouiid  i||(. 
I'iui^'  iicsidt! 

the  liisto- 
V*.',  ai'.l  llic 
)rosi)(.'i't  of 

'nod  at  the 
y  eyed  llio 
st  iiioiildcr- 
dc'solatiiij; 
T  ruin,  and 
ui^t  liomc, 
kUt  of  my 
sscd  across 
'-hal  I  was 
lisputo  tlio 

paired  and 
iitcli  stylo, 
lies  of  the 
e  wcather- 
d  with  the 
lain,  ill  till' 
gable  end 


of  my  edifice ;  a  gilded  horse  in  full  gallop,  once  the  weather- 
cock of  the  great  Vander  Heyden  Palace  of  Albany,  now  glit- 
ter>  in  the  sunshine,  and  veers  with  every  breeze,  on  the  peaked 
turret  over  my  portal ;  ray  sanctum  sanctorum  ia  the  chamber 
once  honored  by  the  illustrious  Diedrich,  and  it  is  from  his 
elhow-chair,  and  his  identical  old  Dutch  writing-desk,  that  I 
pen  this  rambling  epistle. 

Here,  then,  have  I  set  up  my  rest,  surrounded  by  the  recol- 
lections of  early  days,  and  the  mementoes  of  the  historian  of 
the  Manhattoes,  with  that  glorious  river  before  me,  which  flows 
with  such  majesty  through  his  works,  and  which  has  ever  been 
to  me  a  river  of  delight. 

I  thank  God  I  was  born  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson!  I 
think  it  an  invaluable  advantage  to  be  born  ami  brought  up  in 
the  neighborhood  of  some  grand  and  noble  object  in  nature  ;  a 
river,  a  lake,  or  a  mountain.  We  make  a  friendship  with  it, 
we  in  a  manner  ally  ourselves  to  it  for  life.  It  remains  an 
object  of  our  pride  and  aCfections,  a  rallying  point,  to  call  us 
home  again  after  all  our  wanderings.  "The  things  which  we 
have  learned  in  our  childhood,"  says  an  old  writer,  "  grow  up 
with  our  souls,  and  unite  themselves  to  it."  So  it  is  with  the 
Bcenes  among  which  we  have  passed  our  early  days ;  they  in- 
fluence the  whole  course  of  our  thoughts  and  feelings ;  and  I 
fancy  I  can  trace  much  of  what  is  good  and  pleasant  in  my 
own  heterogeneous  compound  to  my  early  companionship  with 
this  glorious  river.  In  the  warmth  of  my  youthful  enthusiasm, 
I  used  to  clothe  it  with  moral  attributes,  and  almost  to  give  it 
a  soul.  I  admired  its  frank,  bold,  honest  chai^ter;  its  noble 
sincerity  and  perfect  truth.  Here  was  no  specious,  smiling:, 
surface  covering  the  dangerous  sand-bar  or  perfidious  rock ; 
but  a  stream  deep  as  it  was  broad,  and  bearing  with  honorable 
faith  the  bark  that  trusted  to  its  waves.  I  gloried  in  its  simple, 
quiet,  majestic,  epic  flow;  ever  straight  forward.  Once,  in- 
deed, it  turns  aside  for  a  moment,  forced  from  its  course  by 
opposing  mountains,  but  it  struggles  bravely  through  them, 
and  immediately  resumes  its  straightforward  march.  Behold, 
thought  I,  an  emblem  of  a  good  man's  course  through  life; 
ever  simple,  open,  and  direct;  or  if,  overpowered  by  adverse 
circumstances,  he  deviate  into  error,  it  is  but  momentary ;  he 
soon  recovers  his  onward  and  honorable  career,  and  continues  it 
to  the  end  of  his  pilgrimage. 

Excuse  this  rhapsody,  into  which  I  have  been  betrayed  by  a 
revival  of  early  feelings.  The  Hudson  is,  in  a  manner,  my  first 
and  last  love ;  and  after  all  my  wanderings  and  seeming  infi- 


il 


u 


WOLFERT*S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


f   ■ 


delities,  I  return  to  it  with  a  heart-felt  preference  over  all  Uie 
other  rivers  in  the  world.  I  seem  to  catch  new  life  as  I  bathe 
in  its  ample  billows  and  inhale  the  pure  breezes  of  its  hills.  \\ 
is  true,  the  romance  of  youth  is  past,  that  once  spread  illusions 
over  every  scene.  I  can  no  longer  picture  an  Arcadia  in  every 
green  valley;  nor  a  fairy  land  among  the  distant  mounta',ig; 
nor  a  peerless  beauty  in  every  villa  gleaming  among  the  trees ; 
but  though  the  illusions  of  youth  have  faded  from  the  land- 
scape,  the  recollections  of  departed  years  and  departed  pleasures 
shed  over  it  the  mellow  charm  of  evening  sunshine. 

Permit  me,  then,  Mr.  Editor,  through  the  medium  of  your 
work,  to  hold  occasional  discourse  from  my  retreat  with  tlie 
busy  world  I  have  abandoned.  I  have  much  to  say  about  wluit 
I  have  seen,  heard,  felt,  and  thought  through  the  course  of  a 
varied  and  rambling,  life,  and  some  lucubrations  that  iiavt  long 
been  encumbering  my  portfolio;  together  with  divers  ii'nii- 
niscences  of  the  venerable  historian  of  the  New  Netherlands, 
that  may  not  be  unacceptable  to  those  who  have  taken  an 
interest  in  his  writings,  and  are  desirous  of  any  thing  that  may 
cast  a  light  back  upon  our  early  history.  Let  your  readeis  rest 
assured  of  one  thing,  that,  though  retired  from  the  world,  1  am 
not  disgusted  with  it ;  and  that  if  in  my  communings  with  it  I 
do  not  prove  very  wise,  I  trust  I  shall  at  least  prove  very  good- 
natured. 

Which  is  all  at  present,  from 

Yours,  etc., 

GEOFFREY  CRAYON. 


To  THE  EnrroR  of  the  Knickerbocker. 

Worthy  Sir:  In  a  preceding  communication,  I  have  given  you 
some  brief  notice  of  Wolfert's  Roost,  the  mansion  where  I  first 
had  the  good  fortune  to  become  acquainted  with  the  venerable 
historian  of  the  New  Netherlands.  As  this  ancient  edilice  is 
likely  to  be  the  place  whence  I  shall  date  many  of  my  lucubra- 
tions, and  as  it  is  really  a  very  remarkable  little  pile,  intimately 
«>anected  with  all  the  great  epochs  of  our  local  and  national 
history,  ''  have  thought  it  but  right  to  give  some  farther  par- 
ticulars concerning  it.  Fortunately,  in  rummaging  a  ponderous 
Dutch  chest  of  drawers,  which  serves  as  the  archives  of  the 
Roost,  and  in  which  are  preserved  many  inedited  manuscripts 
of  Mr.  Knickerbocker,  together  with  the  precious  records  of 
New  Amsterdam,  brouglit  hither  by  Wolfert  Acker  at  the  down- 
fall of  the  Dutch  dynasty,  as  has  been  already  mentioned,  1 


TES. 

over  all  Ui? 

as  I  bathe 
ts  hills.  U 
^ad  illusions 
idia  in  every 

niounta'.ig; 

;  the  trees; 
m  the  land- 
ed pleasures 

um  of  your 

at  witli  tiie 

about  vvh;it 

course  of  a 

it  iiav(  long 

livers   iL'rni- 

S'etherlands, 

e   taken   an 

ng  that  may 

readers  rest 

world,  I  am 

ngs  with  it  I 

e  very  good- 


Y  CRAYON. 


vc  given  yon 
where  I  first 
be  venerable 
nt  ediliee  i.j 
my  Ineubra- 
J,  intimately 
lud  national 
farther  par- 
a  ponderous 
lives  of  tile 
nianuseripts 
I  records  of 
.t  the  doHii- 
aeutioned,  i 


A  CHRONICLE  OF  WOLFERT'S  ROOST. 


n 


round  in  one  corner,  among  dried  pumpkin-seeds,  bunches  ol 
thyme,  and  pennyroyal,  and  crumbs  of  new-year  cakes,  a  man- 
uscript, carefully  wrapped  up  in  the  fragments  of  an  old  parch- 
ment deed,  but  much  blotted,  and  the  ink  grown  foxy  by  time, 
which,  on  inspection,  I  discovered  to  be  a  faithful  chronicle  of 
the  Roost.  The  handwriting,  and  certain  internal  evidences, 
leave  no  doubt  in  my  mind,  that  it  is  a  genuine  production  of 
the  venerable  historian  of  the  New  Netherlands,  written,  very 
probably,  during  h.s  lesidence  at  the  Roost,  in  gratitude  for  the 
hospitality  of  its  proprietor.  As  such,  I  submit  it  for  publica- 
tion. As  the  entire  chronicle  is  too  long  for  the  pages  of  your 
Magazine,  and  as  it  contains  many  minute  particulars,  which 
might  prove  tedious  to  the  general  reader,  I  have  abbreviated 
and  occasionally  omitted  some  of  its  details ;  but  may  hereafter 
furnish  them  separately,  should  they  seem  to  be  required  by  the 
curiosity  of  an  enlightened  and  document-hunting  public. 

Respectfully  yours, 

GEOFFREY  CRAYON. 


A  CHRONICLE  OF  WOLFERT'S  ROOST. 

FOUND    AMONG    THK    PAPERS   OF    THE    LATE    DIEDRICU    KNICKER- 
BOCKER. 

About  five-and-twenty  miles  from  the  anc'ent  and  renowned 
eity  of  Manor ttan,  formerly  called  New  Ams«erdam,  and  vul- 
garly called  New  York,  on  the  eastern  bank  of  that  expansion 
of  the  Hudson,  known  among  Dutch  mariners  of  yore,  as  the 
Tappaan  Zee,  being  in  fact  the  great  Mediterranean  Sea  of  the 
New  Netherlands,  stands  a  little  old-fashioned  stone  mansion, 
all  made  up  of  gable-ends,  and  as  full  of  angles  and  corners  as 
an  old  cocked  hat.  Though  but  of  bmall  dimensions,  yet,  like 
many  small  people,  it  is  of  mighty  spirit,  and  values  itself 
greatly  on  its  antiquity,  being  one  of  the  oldest  edifices,  for  its 
size,  in  the  whole  country.  It  claims  to  be  an  ancient  seat  of 
empire,  I  may  rather  say  an  empire  in  itsilf,  and  like  all  em- 
pires, great  and  small,  has  had  its  grand  historical  epochs.  In 
speaking  of  this  doughty  and  valorous  little  pile,  I  shall  call  it 
by  its  usual  appellation  of  "The  Roost;"  though  that  is  a 
name  given  to  it  in  modern  days,  since  it  became  the  abode  of 
the  white  man. 

Its  origin,  in  truth,  dates  far  back  in  that  remote  region  com' 


1    > 


H^ 


I  < 


I     » 


!l 


4 


•  H 


12 


WOLFBBT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


r  1 


m  ■ 


'ifit 


filfr  i 


monly  called  the  fabulous  age,  in  which  vulgar  fact  becomes 
mystified,  and  tinted  up  with  delectable  fiction.  The  eastern 
sh  3re  of  the  Tappaan  Sea  was  inhabited  in  those  days  by  an 
unsophisticated  race,  existing  in  all  the  simplicity  of  nature; 
that  is  to  say,  they  lived  by  hunting  and  fishing,  and  recreated 
themselves  occasionally  with  a  little  tomahawking  and  scalping. 
Each  stream  that  flows  down  from  the  hills  into  the  Hudson 
had  its  petty  sachem,  who  ruled  over  a  hand's-breadth  of  fore^": 
on  either  sidf*,  and  had  his  seat  of  government  at  its  nioutli. 
The  chieftain  who  ruled  at  the  Roost,  was  not  merely  a  great 
warrior,  but  a  wedicine-man,  or  prophet,  or  conjurer,  for  the}' 
all  mean  the  sam?  thing,  in  Indian  parlance.  Of  his  fightino; 
propensities,  evidences  still  remain,  in  various  arrow-heads  of 
flint,  and  stone  battle-axes,  occasionally  digged  up  about  the 
Roost :  of  his  wizard  powers,  we  have  a  token  in  a  spring  which 
wells  up  at  the  foot  of  the  bank,  on  the  very  margin  of  the 
river,  which,  it  is  said,  was  gifted  by  him  with  rejuvenating 
powers,  something  like  the  renowned  Fountain  of  Youth  in  tlie 
Floridas,  so  anxiously  but  vainly  sought  after  by  the  veteran 
Ponce  de  Leon.  This  story,  however,  is  stoutly  contradicted 
by  an  old  Dutch  matter-of-fact  tradition,  which  declarpf.  that 
the  spring  in  question  was  smuggled  over  from  Holland  in  a 
churn,  by  Femmetie  Van  Slocum,  wife  of  Goosen  Garret  ^  an 
Slocum,  one  of  ihe  first  settlers,  and  that  she  took  it  up  by 
night,  unknown  to  her  hu*=band,  from  beside  their  farm-house 
near  Rotterdam ;  being  srre  she  should  find  no  water  eqaal  to 
it  in  the  new  country  —  and  she  was  right. 

The  wizard  sachem  iiad  a  great  passion  for  discupsing  tern- 
t^rirl  questions,  and  settling  boundary-lines ;  this  kept  hin;  in 
continual  feud  with  the  neighboring  sachems,  each  of  wI.tiU 
stood  up  stoutly  for  his  hand-breadtfi  of  territory  ;  so  that  there 
is  not  a  petty  stream  nor  ragged  hill  in  the  neighborhood,  that 
has  not  been  the  subject  of  long  talks  and  hard  battk's.  The 
^aohem,  however,  as  has  been  observed,  was  a  medieine-man, 
as  well  as  warrioi-,  and  vindicated  his  claims  by  arts  as  will  us 
arms  ;  so  that,  by  ("nt  of  a  little  hard  fighting  here,  and  hocus- 
pocus  there,  he  managed  to  extend  his  boundary-line  from  field 
to  field  and  stream  to  stream,  until  he  found  himself  in  legiti- 
mate possession  of  that  region  of  hills  and  valleys,  bright  foun- 
tains and  limpid  brooks,  locked  in  by  the  mazy  windings  of  the 
Neperan  and  the  Pocnmtico.^ 


*  Ab  rvrrt  one  may  not  recoKnIze  Ibeic  buundaiieg  by  thuir  original  Indian  namei, 
tt  may  tie  well  to  observe,  that  the  Neperan  It  that  beautiful  atream,  vulgarly  called 
tht>  ijuw  Mill  Uiver,  which,  after  wladlug  gra«efuny  for  luaay  milu  liirough  •  loveli 


ml  I  -hi 


ES. 

ct  becomes 

'he  eastern 
days  by  an 

of  nature; 
d  recreated 
id  scalpino, 
be  Hudson 
th  of  forei-: 

its  mouth, 
rely  a  groat 
er,  for' they 
bis  fightiuji; 
)w-liea(ls  of 
)  about  the 
pring  wbich 
trgin  of  the 
ejuveuating 
'outh  in  the 
tlie  veteran 
;ontradicted 
eclarpf.  that 
olland  in  a 
Garret  \  an 
)k  it  up  l)y 
farm-house 
.ter  eqaal  to 

ipsing  cerri- 
cept  him  in 
b  of  w!.>r,n 

0  that  there 
rhood,  tliat 
ttlos.  The 
iicine-man. 

1  as  wiill  us 
and  bocus- 
i  from  ik'ld 
f  in  It'giti- 
right  fouu- 
ings  of  the 


Indian  nsmei, 
vulgarly  called 
ruuKh  a  lur«l| 


A   CHRONICLE  OF  WOLFERrS  ROOST. 


13 


This  last-mentioned  stream,  or  rather  the  valley  through 
which  it  flows,  was  the  most  difficult  of  all  bis  acquisitions.  It 
lay  half  way  to  the  stronghold  of  the  redoubtable  sachem  of 
Sing-Sing,  and  was  claimed  by  him  as  an  integral  part  of  bis 
domains.  Many  were  the  sharp  conflicts  between  the  rival 
chieftains  for  the  sovereignty  of  tbif,  valley,  and  many  the 
ambuscades,  surprisals,  and  deadly  onslaughts  that  took  place 
amoug  its  fastnesses,  of  which  it  grieves  me  much  that  I  can- 
not furnish  the  details  for  the  gratificr.tion  of  those  gentle  but 
bloody-minded  readers  of  both  sexes,  who  delight  in  the  romance 
of  the  tomahawk  and  scalping-knife.  Sufliice  it  to  say  that  the 
wizard  chieftain  was  at  lengtn  victorious,  though  his  victory  is 
attributed  in  Indian  tradition  to  a  great  medicine  or  charm  by 
which  he  laid  the  sachem  of  8ing-8ing  and  his  warriors  asleep 
among  the  rocks  and  recesses  of  the  valley,  where  they  remain 
asleep  to  the  present  day  with  their  bows  and  war-clubs  bv  side 
them.  This  was  the  origin  of  that  potent  and  irowsy  spell 
which  still  prevails  over  the  valley  of  the  Pocantico,  and  wbich 
has  gained  it  the  well-merited  appellation  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 
Often,  in  secluded  and  quiet  parts  of  that  valley,  where  the 
stream  is  overhung  by  dark  woods  and  rocks,  the  ploughman, 
on  some  calm  and  sunny  day  as  be  shouts  to  bis  oxen,  is  sur- 
prised at  bearing  faint  shouts  from  the  bill-sides  in  reply ; 
being,  it  is  said,  the  spell-bound  warriors,  who  half  start  from 
their  rocky  couches  and  grasp  their  weapons,  but  sink  to  sleep 


agam 

'1^ 


J'he  conquest  of  the  Pocantico  was  the  last  triumph  of  the 
wi'^ard  sachem.  Notwithstanding  all  his  medicine  and  charms, 
be  fell  in  battle  in  attempting  to  extend  bis  boundary-line  to 
the  east  so  as  to  take  in  the  little  wild  valley  of  the  Sprain, 
and  his  grave  is  still  shown  near  the  banks  of  that  pastoral 
stream.  He  left,  however,  a  great  empire  to  hie  successors, 
extending  along  the  Tappaan  Zee,  from  Yonkers  quite  to  Sleepy 
Hollow  ;  all  wbich  delectable  region,  if  every  one  had  his  right, 
would  still  acknowledge  allegiance  to  the  lord  of  the  Roost  — 
whoever  be  might  be.^ 


valley,  nhrouded  by  grovc«,  and  dotted  by  Dutch  farm-houses,  empties  Itself  Into  the 
lIudHon,  at  the  aiicipiit  durp  of  Vunlsprg.  The  Pocantico  Im  that  hitherto  namelesa 
brook,  thut,  ri»iiig  among  woody  hillH,  winds  in  many  a  wizard  maze  through  tho 
BcquesliTpd  hauntH  of  MliK'pv  Hollow.  We  owe  it  to  the  Indefatigable  researches  ol 
Mr.  KNiCKEunocKRK,  that  those  beautiful  streams  are  rescued  from  modern  common. 
place,  and  ruiiivi-sted  with  their  ancient  ludian  names.  The  correctness  of  the  vener- 
able liiHtorian  may  tie  aHCcrtainod,  by  reference  to  the  records  of  the  original  Indian 
grantii  to  the  llorr  Frederick  thilipsen,  preserved  in  the  county  clerk'a  office,  at  White 
I'lains. 

'  In  recording  the  contest  for  the  sovereignty  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  I  have  called  on« 
Muhem  by  the  uiuderu  uame  of  hid  castle  or  stronghold,  viz. :  mog-Bing.    This,  I  would 


i 

f    'I 


■ « 


14 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


»' 


■•:! 


r   \   \: 


The  wizard  sachem  was  succeeded  by  a  line  of  chiefs,  of 
whom  nothing  remarkable  remains  on  record.  The  last  who 
makes  any  figure  in  history  is  the  one  who  ruled  here  sit  the 
time  of  the  discovery  of  the  country  by  the  white  man.  This 
sachem  is  said  to  have  been  a  renowned  trencherman,  who 
maintained  almost  as  potent  a  sway  by  dint  of  good  feeding  us 
his  warlike  predecessors  had  done  by  hard  fighting.  He  dili- 
gently cultivated  the  growth  of  oysters  along  the  aquatic 
borders  of  his  territories,  and  founded  those  great  oyster-hcds 
which  yet  exist  along  the  shoros  of  the  Tappaan  Zee.  Did  uny 
dispute  occur  between  him  and  a  neighboring  sachem,  he  in- 
vited him  and  all  his  principal  sages  and  fighting-mon  to  a 
solemn  banquet,  and  seldom  failed  of  feeding  them  into  ttims. 
Enormous  heaps  of  oyster-shells,  which  encumber  the  lofty 
banks  of  the  river,  remain  as  monuments  of  his  gastronoinical 
victories,  and  have  been  occasionally  adduced  througli  mistuke 
by  amateur  geologists  from  town,  as  additional  proofs  of  the 
deluge.  Modern  investigators,  who  are  making  sucii  iudofjiti- 
gable  researches  into  our  early  history,  have  even  aflirmed  tliat 
this  sachem  was  the  very  individual  on  whom  Master  Ilendrick 
Hudson  and  his  mate,  Robert  Juet,  made  that  sage  and 
astounding  experiment  so  gravely  recorded  by  the  latter  in  liis 
narrative  of  the  voyage:  "Our  master  an.l  his  mate  deter- 
mined to  try  some  of  the  cheefe  men  of  the  country  wlietlier 
they  had  any  treacherie  in  them.  So  they  took  them  down 
into  the  cabin  and  gave  them  so  much  wine  and  aqua  vitui 
that  they  were  all  very  merrie ;  one  of  them  had  his  wife  with 
him,  which  sate  so  modestly  as  any  of  our  country wonitn 
would  do  in  a  strange  place.  In  the  end  one  of  them  was 
drunke ;  and  that  was  strange  to  them,  for  they  could  not  tell 
how  to  take  it. "  * 

How  far  Master  Hendrick  Hudson  and  his  worthy  mate  car- 
ried their  experiment  with  the  sachem's  wife  is  not  recorded, 
neither  does  the  curious  Robert  Juet  make  any  mention  of  the 
after-consequences  of   this  grand  moral  test ;   tradition,  how- 


ever,   allirms   that  the   sachem   on   landing 


gave 


his   modest 


spouse  a  hearty  rib-roasting,  according  to  the  connubial  disci- 
pline of  the  aboriginals  ;  it  farther  affirms  that  he  remained  a 
hard  drinker   to   the   day   of   his  death,  trading  away  all  his 

ob«erve  for  the  Hake  of  hUtorical  exuctnega,  is  a  corruption  of  the  old  Indinii  iiaine, 
O-Miii-Hing,  or  rather  O-Biii-HunK,  that  is  to  Huy,  a  jihiue  where  uiiy  thitiK  luiiy  be  hiid 
tor  a  HoiiK  — a  (treat  recoraraendat'oii  for  a  market  town.  The  modern  and  melodiouu 
&;u*ratlon  of  the  name  to  riin^-jlng  is  Baid  to  have  been  made  in  eomplinieiit  tu 
&n  eminent  Methodist  pingiiig-matttcr,  who  flrat  introduced  into  the  ucigbborhoud  tbo 
itrt  of  Hinging  through  the  none.  L>.  K. 

'  ISeeJuul'ii  Juurual,  i'urcbam  J'ilyritn. 


the 


Ji'! 


!.«'* 


(r. 


lES, 

chiefs,  of 
lie  last  who 
here  at  the 
man.     'ri,is 
rnitvn,  who 
feeding  as 
He  dill, 
lie    aquatic 
oyster-i)0(ls 
'•     iJid  any 
leni,  he  in- 
g-men  to  a 
iuto  terms. 
r   the   lofty 
istronoriiieal 
iigli  mistake 
oof.s  of  the 
eh  indefati- 
tlirmed  tliat 
er  Ilendriek 
sage    and 
latter  in  his 
mate  doter- 
try  whether 
them   down 
aqua  vita? 
is  wife  with 
mtrywonuii 
f  them  was 
uld  not  tell 

y  mate  car- 
t  recorded, 
tion  of  the 
ition,  how- 
liis  modest 
ubial  disci- 
remained  a 
I'ay  all   his 

I  Indian  iiaiiie, 
IK  luii.v  lie  had 
and  meludiouij 
iioinplitiit-iit  to 
^bbui'h()u<i  tbo 


A   CHRONICLE  OF  WOLFERT'S  ROOST. 


15 


lands,  acre  by  acre,  for  aqua  vitae ;  by  which  means  the  Roost 
and  all  its  domains,  from  Yonkers  to  Sleepy  Hollow,  came,  in 
the  regular  course  of  trade  and  by  right  of  purchase,  into  the 
possession  of  the  Dutchmen. 

Never  has  a  territorial  right  in  these  new  countries  been 
more  legitimately  and  tradefuUy  established  ;  yet,  I  grieve  to 
say,  the  worthy  government  of  the  New  Netherlands  was  not 
suffered  to  enjoy  this  grand  acquisition  unmolested  ;  for,  in  the 
year  lGo4,  the  losel  Yankees  of  Connecticut  —  those  swapping, 
bargaining,  squatting  enemies  of  the  Manhattoes  —  made  a 
daring  inroad  into  this  neighborhood  and  founded  a  colony 
called  Westchester,  or,  as  the  anc'.ent  Dutch  records  term  it, 
Vest  Dorp,  in  the  right  of  one  Thomas  Pell,  who  pretended  to 
have  purchased  the  whole  surrounding  country  of  the  Indians, 
and  stood  ready  to  argue  their  claims  before  any  tribunal  of 
Christendom. 

This  happened  during  the  chivalrous  reign  of  Peter  Stuyve- 
sant,  and  it  roused  the  ire  of  that  gunpowder  old  hero ;  who, 
without  waiting  to  discuss  claims  and  titles,  pounced  at  once 
upon  the  nest  of  nefarious  squatters,  carried  off  twenty-five  of 
them  in  chains  to  the  Manhattoes,  nor  did  he  stay  his  hand, 
nor  give  rest  to  his  wooden  leg,  until  he  had  driven  every 
Yankee  back  into  the  bounds  of  Connecticut,  or  obliged  him 
to  acknowledge  allegiance  to  their  High  Mightinesses.  He 
then  established  certain  out-posts,  far  in  the  Indian  country, 
to  keep  an  eye  over  these  debatable  lauds ;  one  of  these 
border-holds  was  the  Roost,  being  accessible  from  New  Amster- 
dam by  water,  and  easily  kept  supplied.  The  Yankees,  how- 
ever, had  too  great  a  hankering  after  this  delectable  region  to 
give  it  up  entirely.  Some  remained  and  swore  allegiance  to  the 
Manhattoes  ;  but,  while  they  kept  this  open  semblance  of  fealty, 
they  went  to  work  secretly  and  vigorously  to  intermarry  and 
multiply,  and  by  these  nefarious  means,  artfully  propagated 
themselves  into  possession  of  a  wide  tract  of  those  open,  arable 
parts  of  Westchester  county,  lyiug  along  the  Sound,  where 
their  descendants  may  be  found  at  the  present  day ;  while  the 
mountainous  regions  along  the  Hudson,  with  the  valleys  of  the 
Neperan  and  the  Pocantico,  are  tenaciously  held  by  the  lineal 
descendants  of  the  Copperheads. 


The  chronicle  of  the  venerable  Diedrich  here  goes  on  to  relate 
iiow  that,  shortly  after  the  above-mentioned  events,  the  whole 
province   of    the    New   Netherlands   was    subjugated    by   the 


I'j  y 


*■  ■ .    ', 


t       i 


'  t 


lit 


16 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


British ;  how  that  "Wolfert  Acker,  one  of  tlie  wrangling  coun- 
cillors of  Peter  Stuyvesant,  retired  in  dudgeon  to  this  fastness 
in  the  wilderness,  determining  to  enjoy  "  lust  in  rust  "  for  the 
remainder  of  his  days,  whence  the  place  first  received  its  name 
of  Wolfert's  Roost.  As  these  and  sundry  other  matters  have 
been  laid  before  the  public  in  a  preceding  article,  1  shall  pass 
them  over,  and  resume  the  chronicle  where  it  treats  of  matters 
jQot  hitherto  recorded : 


i  • 


I   I 


Like  many  men  who  retire  from  a  worrying  world,  says 
DiEDRiCH  Knickerbocker,  to  enjoy  quiet  in  the  country,  Wol- 
fert Acker  soon  found  himself  up  to  the  ears  in  trouble.  He 
had  a  termagant  wife  at  home,  and  there  was  what  is  profanely 
called  "  the  deuce  to  pay,"  abroad.  The  recent  irruption  of 
the  Yankees  into  the  bounds  of  the  New  Netherlands,  had  left 
behind  it  a  doleful  pes'.'ilence,  such  as  is  apt  to  follow  the  steps 
of  invading  armies.  This  was  the  deadly  plague  of  witchcraft, 
which  had  long  been  prevalent  to  the  eastward.  The  malady 
broke  out  at  Vest  Dorp,  and  threatened  to  spread  throughout 
the  country.  The  Dutch  burghers  along  the  Hudson,  from 
Yonkers  to  Sleepy  Hollow,  hastened  to  nail  horse-shoes  to  their 
doors,  which  have  ever  been  found  of  sovereign  virtue  to  repel 
this  awful  visitation.  This  is  the  origin  of  the  horse-shoes 
which  may  still  be  seen  nailed  to  the  doors  of  barns  and  farm- 
houses, in  various  parts  of  this  sage  and  sober-thoughted  region. 

The  evil,  however,  bore  hard  upon  the  Roost ;  partly,  per- 
haps, from  its  having  in  old  times  been  subject  to  supernatural 
influences,  during  the  sway  of  the  Wizard  Sachem  ;  but  it  has 
always,  in  fact,  been  considered  a  fated  mansion.  The  unlucky 
Wolfert  had  no  rest  day  or  night.  When  the  weather  was  quiet 
all  over  the  country,  the  wind  would  howl  and  whistle  round  his 
roof ;  witches  would  ride  and  whirl  upon  his  weathercocks, 
and  scream  down  his  chimneys.  His  cows  gave  bloody  niilk, 
and  his  horses  broke  bounds,  and  scampered  into  the  woods. 
There  were  not  wanting  evil  tongues  to  whisper  that  Wolfert's 
termagant  wife  had  some  tampering  with  the  enemy ;  and  that 
she  even  attended  a  witches'  Sabbath  in  Sleepy  Hollow ;  nay,  a 
neighbor,  who  lived  hard  by,  declared  that  he  saw  her  harness- 
ing a  rampant  broom-stick,  and  about  to  ride  to  the  meeting; 
though  others  presume  it  was  merely  flourished  in  the  course  of 
one  of  her  curtain  lectures,  to  give  energy  and  emphasis  to  a 
period.  Certain  it  is,  that  W^olfert  Acker  nailed  a  horse-shoo 
to  the  front  door,  during  one  of  her  nocturnal  excursions,  to 
prevent  her  return ;  but  as  she  re-entered  the  house  without  &uy 


t-i 


MES. 

feling  coun- 
ais  fastness 

^t  '•  for  the 
ed  its  Uiinie 

|atters  have 

shall  pass 

of  matters 


orld,  says 
intry,  Wol- 
[ouble.     Ho 
IS  profanely 
rruption  of 
Is,  had  left 
w  the  steps 
witchcraft, 
'he  malady 
throughout 
dson,  from 
oes  to  their 
tue  to  repel 
horse-siioes 
5  and  farm- 
ited  region, 
partly,  per- 
uperuatural 
but  it  has 
'he  unlucky 
r  was  quiet 
3  round  his 
ithercocks, 
oody  milk, 
ihe  woods. 
VVolfeit's 
;  and  tiiat 
w ;  nay,  a 
r  harness- 
meeting  ; 
course  of 
basis  to  a 
lorse-shoe 
rsions,  to 
tbout  anv 


A  CHRONICLE  OF  WOLFERT'S  ROOaT, 


17 


difficulty,  it  is  probable  she  was  not  so  much  of  a  witch  as  she 
was  represented.* 

After  the  time  of  Wolfert  Acker,  a  long  interval  elapses, 
about  which  but  littla  is  known.  It  is  hoped,  however,  that  the 
antiquarian  researches  so  diligently  making  in  every  part  of 
this  new  country,  may  yet  throw  some  light  upon  what  may  be 
termed  the  Dark  Ages  of  the  Roost. 

The  next  period  at  which  we  find  this  venerable  and  eventful 
pile  rising  to  importance,  and  resuming  its  old  belligerent  char- 
acter, is  during  the  revolutionary  war.  It  was  at  that  time 
owned  by  Jacob  Van  Tassel,  or  Van  Texel,  as  the  name  was 
originally  spelled,  after  the  place  in  Holland  which  gave  birth 
to  this  heroic  line.  He  was  strong-built,  long-limbed,  and  as 
stout  in  soul  as  in  body  ;  a  fit  successor  to  the  warrior  sachem 
of  yore,  and,  like  him,  delighting  in  extravagant;  enterprises 
and  hardy  deeds  of  arms.  But,  before  I  enter  upoi.  the  exploits 
of  this  worthy  cock  of  the  Roost,  it  is  fitting  I  should  throw 
some  light  upon  the  state  of  the  mansion,  and  of  the  surround- 
ing country,  at  the  time. 

The  situation  of  the  Roost  is  in  the  very  hea.-t  of  what  was 
the  debatable  ground  between  the  American  and  British  lines, 
during  the  war.  The  British  held  possession  of  the  city  of 
New  York,  and  the  island  of  Manhattan  on  which  it  stands. 
The  Americans  drew  up  toward  the  Highlands,  holding  their 
headquarters  at  Peekskill.  The  intervening  country,  from 
Croton  River  to  Spiting  Devil  Creek,  was  the  debatable  land, 
subject  to  be  harried  by  friend  and  foe,  like  the  Scottish  borders 
of  yore.  It  is  a  rugged  country,  with  a  line  of  rocky  hills 
extending  through  it,  like  a  back  bone,  sending  ribs  on  either 
side  ;  but  among  these  rude  hills  are  beautiful  winding  valleys, 
like  those  watered  by  the  Pocantico  and  the  Neperan.  In  the 
fastnesses  of  these  hills,  and  along  these  valleys,  exist  a  race 
of  hard-headed,  hard-handed,  stout-hearted  Dutchmen,  descend- 
ants of  the  primitive  Nederlauders.  Most  of  these  wei'e  strong 
whigs  throughout  the  war,  and  have  ever  remained  obstinately 

1  Historical  Note.  —  The  aiinuxcd  exlracU  from  the  early  colonial  records,  relate 
to  the  Irruption  of  witchcraft  in  Wustcheater  county,  as  mentioned  in  the  chronicie: 

"  Jui.Y  7, 1670.  —  Katbitrinu  IlarryBon,  accused  of  witchcraft  on  complaint  of  Thomas 
Hunt  and  Edward  Wutern,  in  behalf  of  the  town,  who  pray  that  she  may  be  driven 
from  the  town  of  WeHtcheoter.  The  woman  appears  beforn  the  council.  .  .  .  She  was 
B  native  of  Knglund,  and  liad  lived  a  year  in  Wealhersfleld,  Connecticut,  where  she  had 
been  tried  for  witchcraft,  found  guilty  by  the  jury,  acquitted  by  the  bench,  and  releaied 
out  of  priHon,  upon  condition  she  would  remove.    Affair  adjourned. 

"  AiiousT  24.  —  Affair  taken  up  again,  when,  being  heard  at  large,  it  was  referred  to 
the  general  court  of  asgize.     Woman  ordered  to  give  Hecurity  for  good  behavior,"  etc. 

In  another  place  is  the  following  entry  : 

"  Order  ^iven  for  Kalhariue  Ilarryson,  charged  with  witchcraft,  to  leave  WesteliMteri 
as  the  inhabitautH  are  uneasy  ut  her  reaidiuK  tbeie,  and  ahe  is  ordered  to  go  ott." 


■11 

■ 

1 

>   ' 

yj 

i  Ml 

I\  ^ 

\  1 

1  > 

II 

1     ! 

1  1 

r   ) 


:1 

r 


(     ! 


\   'i 


18 


WOLFERT'S  R008T  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


l^ 


m 


.'\ 


i;l 


attached  to  the  soil,  and  neither  to  l)c  fought  nor  bought  out  of 
their  paternal  acres.  Others  were  tories,  and  adherents  to  tlii' 
old  kingly  rule ;  some  of  whom  took  refuge  within  the  British 
lines,  joined  the  royal  bauds  of  refugees,  a  name  odious  to  the 
American  ear,  and  occasionally  returned  to  harass  their  ancient 
neighbors. 

In  a  little  while,  this  debatable  land  was  overrun  by  preda- 
tory bands  from  either  side ;  sacking  hen-roosts,  plundering 
farm-houses,  and  driving  off  cattle.  Hence  arose  those  two 
great  orders  of  border  chivalry,  the  Skinners  and  the  Cowboys, 
famous  in  the  heroic  annals  of  Westchester  county.  The  former 
fought,  or  rather  marauded,  under  the  American,  the  latter 
under  the  British  banner ;  but  both,  in  the  hurry  of  their  mili- 
tary ardor,  were  apt  to  err  on  the  safe  side,  and  rob  friend  as 
well  as  foe.  Neither  of  them  stopiKjd  to  ask  the  politics  of 
horse  or  cow,  which  they  drove  into  captivity ;  nor,  when  they 
wrung  the  neck  of  a  rooster,  did  they  trouble  their  heads  to 
ascertain  whether  he  were  crowing  for  Congress  or  King  George. 

While  this  marauding  system  prevailed  on  shore,  the  (Jreat 
Tappaan  Sea,  which  washes  this  belligerent  region,  was  domi- 
neered over  by  British  frigates  and  other  vessels  of  war,  an- 
chored here  and  there,  to  keep  an  eye  u^wn  the  river,  and 
maintain  a  comnmnication  between  the  various  military  posts. 
Stout  galleys,  also,  armed  with  eighteeu-}K)unders,  and  navi- 
gated with  sails  and  oars,  cruised  about  like  hawks,  ready  to 
pounce  ui)on  their  prey. 

All  these  were  eyed  with  bitter  hostility  by  the  Dutch  yeo- 
manry along  shore,  who  were  indignant  at  seeing  their  great 
Mediterranean  ploughed  by  hostile  prows;  and  would  occasioually 
throw  up  a  mud  breast-work  on  a  point  or  promontory,  mount 
an  old  iron  field-piece,  and  fire  away  at  the  enemy,  though  the 
greatest  harm  was  apt  to  happen  to  themselves  from  the  burst- 
ing of  their  ordnance  ;  nay,  there  was  scarce  a  Dutchman  along 
the  river  that  would  hesitate  to  fire  with  his  long  duck  gun  at 
any  British  cruiser  that  came  within  reach,  as  he  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  fire  at  water- fowl. 

I  have  been  thus  particular  in  ray  account  of  the  times  and 
neighborhood,  that  the  reader  might  the  more  readily  com- 
prehend the  surrounding  dangers  in  this  the  Heroic  Age  of  the 
Roost. 

It  was  commanded  at  the  time,  as  I  have  ''Iready  observed, 
by  the  stout  Jacob  Van  Tassel.  As  I  wion  to  be  extremely 
accurate  in  this  paii  of  my  chronicle,  I  beg  that  this  Jacob  \'au 
Tassel  of  the  Roost  may  not  be  confouuded  with  another  Jacob 


TES. 

J»ugJit  out  of 
[rents  to  tin, 
P  the  British 
Mious  to  tliu 
f  lieir  anciont 

n  by  preda- 
plundering 
those  two 
he  Cowboys, 
The  former 
the   latter 
|f  tlioir  inili- 
b  friend  as 
politics  of 
,  when  they 
ir  heads  to 
ing  (ieorge. 
,  the  (ireat 
,  was  doiiii- 
of  war,  an- 
,  I'iver,  and 
itary  posts. 
and  navi- 
:s,  ready  to 


A   CHRONICLE  OF  WOLFERT'S  ROOST. 


19 


Dutch 


yco- 


their  great 
•ceasioually 
ory,  mount 
though  the 
I  the  burst- 
iman  along 
uck  gun  at 
een  aecus- 

tiines  and 
idily  eoni- 
^gii  of  the 

observed, 
extremely 
acob  \'au 
her  Jacob 


Van  Tassel,  commonly  known  in  border  story  by  the  name  of 
"Clump-footed  Jake,"  a  noted  tory,  and  one  of  the  refugee 
band  of  Spiting  Devil.  On  the  contrary,  he  f  the  Roost  was 
a  patriot  of  the  first  water,  and,  if  we  may  take  his  own  word 
for  granted,  a  thorn  in  the  side  of  the  enemy.  As  the  Roost, 
from  its  lonely  situation  on  the  water's  edge,  might  bo  liable 
to  attack,  he  took  measures  for  defence.  On  a  row  of  hooks 
above  his  fireplace,  reposed  his  great  piece  of  ordnance,  ready 
charged  and  primed  for  action.  This  was  a  duck,  or  rather 
goose-gun,  of  unparalleled  longitude,  with  which  it  was  said  he 
could  kill  a  wild  goose,  though  half-way  across  the  Tappaon  Sea. 
Indeed,  there  are  as  many  wonders  told  of  this  renowned  gun, 
as  of  the  enchanted  weapons  of  the  heroes  of  classic  story. 

In  different  parts  of  the  stone  walls  of  his  mansion,  he  had 
made  loop-holes,  through  which  he  might  fire  upon  an  assailant. 
Ilis  wife  was  stout-hearted  as  himself,  and  could  load  as  fast  as 
he  could  fire  ;  and  then  he  had  an  ancient  and  redoubtaole  sister, 
Nochie  Van  Wurmcr,  a  match,  as  he  said,  for  the  stoutest  man 
in  the  country.  Thus  garrisoned,  the  little  Roost  was  fit  to 
stand  a  siege,  and  Jacob  Van  Tassel  was  the  man  to  defend  it 
to  the  last  charge  of  powder. 

He  was,  as  I  have  already  hinted,  of  pugnacious  propensities ; 
and,  not  content  with  being  a  patriot  at  home,  and  fighting  for 
tiie  security  of  his  own  fireside,  he  extended  his  thoughts 
abroad,  and  entered  into  a  confederacy  with  certain  of  the 
bold,  hard-riding  lads  of  Tarrytown,  Petticoat  Lane,  and  Sleepy 
Hollow,  who  formed  a  kind  of  Holy  Brotherhood,  scouring  thv, 
country  to  clear  it  of  Skinner  and  Cowboy,  and  all  other  bor- 
der vermin.  The  Roost  was  one  of  their  rallying  points.  Did 
a  band  of  marauders  from  INIanhattan  island  come  sweeping 
through  the  neighborhood,  and  driving  off  cattle,  the  stout 
Jacob  and  his  compeers  were  soon  clattering  at  their  heels,  and 
fortunate  did  the  rogues  esteem  themselves  if  they  could  but 
get  a  part  of  their  booty  across  the  lines,  or  escape  themselves 
without  a  rough  handling.  Should  the  mosstroopers  succeed 
in  passing  witli  their  cavalgada,  with  thundering  tramp  and 
dusty  whirlwind,  across  Kingsbridge,  the  Holy  Brotherhood  of 
the  Roost  would  rein  up  at  that  perilous  pass,  and,  wheeling 
about,  would  indemnify  themselves  by  foraging  the  refugee 
region  of  Morrisania. 

When  at  home  at  the  Roost,  the  stout  Jacob  was  not  idle ; 
but  was  prone  to  carry  on  a  petty  warfare  of  bis  own,  for  his 
private  recreation  and  refreshment.  Did  he  ever  'I'l'ance  to 
espy,  from  his  look-out  place,  a  hostile  ship  or  galley  anchored 


I  • 


20 


WOLFSRT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


f     I 


1  t 


^  1^' 


or  becalmed  near  shore,  he  would  take  down  his  long  gooae-gun 
from  the  hooks  over  the  fireplace,  sally  out  alone,  and  lurk  alonir 
shore,  dodging  behind  rocks  and  trees,  and  watching  for  hours 
together,  like  a  veteran  mouser  intent  on  a  rat-hole.  So  sure 
as  a  boat  put  off  for  shore,  and  came  within  shot,  bang !  went 
the  great  goose-gun  ;  a  shower  of  slugs  and  bnck-shot  whisUed 
about  the  ears  of  the  enemy,  and  before  the  boat  could  reach 
the  shore,  Jacob  had  scuttled  up  some  woody  ravine,  and  left 
no  trace  behind. 

About  this  time,  the  Roost  experienced  a  vast  accession  of 
warlike  importance,  in  being  made  one  of  the  stations  of  the 
water-guard.  This  was  a  kind  of  aquatic  corps  of  observation, 
composed  of  long,  sharp,  canoe-shaped  boats,  technically  called 
whale-boats,  that  lay  lightly  on  the  water,  and  could  be  rowt'd 
with  great  rapidity.  They  were  manned  by  resolute  fellows, 
skilled  at  pulling  an  oar,  or  handling  a  musket.  These  lurked 
about  in  nooks  and  bays,  ami  behind  those  long  promontories 
which  run  out  into  the  Tappaan  Sea,  keeping  a  look-out,  to  give 
notice  of  the  approach  or  movements  of  hostile  ships.  They 
roved  about  in  pairs  ;  sometimes  at  night,  with  muffled  ours, 
gliding  like  spectres  about  frigates  and  guard-ships  riding  at 
anchor,  cutting  off  any  boats  that  made  for  shore,  and  keeping 
the  enemy  in  constant  uneasiness.  These  mosquito-cruisers 
generally  kept  aloof  by  day,  so  that  their  harboring  places  might 
not  be  discovered,  but  would  pull  quietly  along,  under  shadow 
of  the  shore,  at  night,  to  take  up  their  (juarters  at  the  Roost. 
Hither,  at  such  time,  would  also  repair  the  hard-riding  lads 
of  the  hills,  to  hold  secret  councils  of  war  with  the  "  ocean 
chivalry;"  and  in  these  nocturnal  meetings  were  concerted 
many  of  those  daring  forays,  by  land  and  water,  that  resounded 
throughout  the  border. 


The  chronicle  here  goes  on  to  recount  divers  wonderful 
stories  of  the  wars  of  tlie  Roost,  from  which  it  would  seem, 
■:hat  this  little  warrior  nest  carried  the  terror  of  its  arms  into 
3very  sea,  from  Spiting  Devil  Creek  to  Antony's  Nose  ;  that  it 
even  bearded  the  stout  island  of  Manhattan,  invading  it  at 
night,  penetrating  to  its  centre,  and  burning  down  the  famous 
Delancey  house,  the  conflagration  of  which  makes  such  a  blaze 
in  revolutionary  history.  Nay  more,  in  their  extravagant  dar- 
ing, these  cocks  of  the  Roost  meditated  a  nocturnal  descent 
upon  New  York  itself,  to  swoop  upon  the  British  commanders, 
Howe  and  Clinton,  by  surprise,  bear  them  off  captive,  and  per- 
haps put  a  triumphaut  close  to  the  war  1 


lES. 

g  goo8o-g„n 
<•  lurk  along 
»S  for  hours 
'*>o  sure 
bang!  went 
liot  whistled 
t'ould  reach 
»e,  and  left 

iccession  of 
tions  of  the 
observation, 
iciilly  called 
I  be  rowed 
•itc  fellows, 
lit'so  lurked 
>roinontories 
•out,  to  give 
lips.     They 
luffled  oars, 
IS  riding  at 
md  keepiiur 
Jito-cruisers 
)laces  might 
ider  sluuiow 
the  Hoost. 
-riding  lads 
the  ' '  ocean 
i   concerted 
t  resounded 


wonderful 
ould  seem, 
I  arms  into 
>se ;  that  it 
ding  it  at 
;he  famous 
eh  a  blaze 
agant  dar- 
lal  descenJ 
mraanders, 
!,  and  per- 


il   CHRONICLE  OF   WOLFERTS  ROOST. 


81 


All  these  and  many  similar  exploits  are  recorded  by  the 
worthy  Diedrich,  with  his  usual  minuteness  and  enthusiasm, 
whenever  the  deeds  in  arms  of  his  kindred  Dutchmen  are  in 
question  ;  but  though  most  of  these  warlike  stories  rest  upon 
the  best  of  all  authority,  that  of  the  warriors  themselves,  and 
though  many  of  them  are  still  current  among  the  revolutionary 
patriarchs  of  this  heroic  neighborhood,  yet  I  dare  not  expose 
them  to  the  incredulity  of  a  tamer  and  less  chivalric  age.  Suf- 
fice it  to  say,  the  frequent  gatherings  at  the  Roost,  and  the 
hardy  projects  set  on  foot  there,  at  length  drew  on  it  the  fiery 
indignation  of  the  enemy ;  and  this  was  quickened  by  the  con- 
duct of  the  stout  Jacob  Van  Tassel ;  with  whose  valorous 
achievements  we  resume  the  course  of  the  chronicle. 


This  doughty  Dutchman,  continues  the  sage  Diedrich  Knick- 
ERBOCKEU,  was  not  content  with  taking  a  share  in  all  the  mag- 
nanimous enterprises  concocted  at  the  Boost,  but  still  continued 
his  petty  warfare  islong  shore.  A  series  of  exploits  at  length 
raised  his  confidence  in  his  prowess  to  such  a  height,  that  he 
began  to  think  himself  and  his  goose-gun  a  match  for  any 
thing.  Unluckily,  in  the  course  of  one  of  his  prowlings,  he 
descried  a  British  transport  aground,  not  far  from  shore,  with 
her  stern  swung  toward  the  land,  witliin  point-blank  shot. 
The  temptation  was  too  great  to  be  resisted  ;  bang  !  as  usual, 
went  the  great  goose-gun,  shivering  the  cabin  windows,  and 
driving  all  hands  forward.  Bang !  bang !  the  shots  were  re- 
peated. The  reports  brought  several  sharp-shooters  of  the 
neighborhood  to  the  spot ;  before  the  transport  could  bring  a 
gun  to  bear,  or  land  a  boat,  to  take  revenge,  she  was  soundly  pep- 
pered, and  the  coast  evacuated.  This  was  the  last  of  Jacob's 
triumphs.  He  fared  like  some  heroic  spider,  that  has  unwit- 
tingly ensnared  a  hornet,  to  his  immortal  glory,  perhaps,  but 
to  the  utter  ruin  of  his  web. 

It  was  not  long  after  this,  during  the  absence  of  Jacob  Van 
Tassel  on  one  of  his  forays,  and  when  no  one  was  in  garrison 
but  his  stout-hearted  spouse,  his  redoubtable  sister,  Nochie  Van 
Wurmer,  and  a  strapping  negro  wench,  called  Dinah,  that  an 
armed  vessel  came  to  anchor  off  the  Roost,  and  a  boat  full  of 
men  pulled  to  shore.  The  garrison  flew  to  arms,  that  is  to  say, 
to  mops,  broom-sticks,  shovels,  tongs,  and  all  kinds  of  domestic 
weapons  ;  for,  unluckily,  the  great  piece  of  ordnance,  the  goose- 
gun,  was  absent  with  its  owner.  Above  all,  a  vigorous  defence 
was  made  with  that  most  potent  of  female  weapons,  the  tongue. 


22 


WOLFERT'S   ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


Never  did  invaded  henroost  make  a  more  vociferous  outcry. 
It  was  A\  in  vain.  The  house  was  saciied  and  pluiidiTed,  fuo 
was  set  to  eaeli  corner,  and  in  a  few  moments  its  Ithizc  shed  a 
baleful  light  far  over  the  Tappaan  Sea.  The  invaders  tlicn 
pounced  upon  the  blooming  Laney  Van  Tassel,  the  Ix'uuty  of 
the  Roost,  and  endeavored  to  bear  her  off  to  the  boat.  n„i, 
here  was  the  real  tug  of  war.  The  mother,  the  aunt,  and  llic 
strapping  negro  wench,  all  flew  to  the  rescue.  The  strug<j;lo 
continued  down  to  the  very  water's  edge  ;  when  a  voice  from 
the  armed  vessel  at  anchor,  ordered  the  spoilers  to  let  go  llidr 
hold;  they  relinquished  their  prize,  jumped  into  their  liouts. 
and  pulled  off,  and  the  heroine  of  the  Roost  escaped  witli  a 
mere  rumpling  of  the  feathers. 


M 


*  I  K 


U\ 


t  i 


The  fear  of  tiring  my  readers,  who  may  not  take  suoh  an 
interest  as  myself  in  these  heroic  themes,  induces  me  to  elosc 
here  my  extracts  from  this  precious  chronicle  of  the  venerable 
Diedrich.  Suffice  it  briefly  to  say,  that  shortly  after  tlu'  catas- 
trophe of  the  Roost,  Jacob  V^an  Tassel,  in  the  course  of  one  of 
his  forays,  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  British  ;  was  sent  prisoner 
to  New  York,  and  was  detained  in  captivity  for  the  gi'cater  part 
of  the  war.  In  the  mean  time,  the  Roost  remained  a  melan- 
choly ruin  ;  its  stone  walls  and  brick  chimneys  alone  standing, 
blackened  by  fire,  and  the  resort  of  bats  and  owlets.  It  was 
not  until  the  return  of  peace,  when  this  belligerent  neigliltor- 
hood  once  more  resumed  its  quiet  agricultural  pursuits,  that 
the  stout  Jacob  sought  the  scene  of  his  triumphs  and  disas- 
ters ;  rebuilt  the  Roost,  and  reared  again  on  high  its  glittering 
weather-cocks. 

Does  any  one  want  further  particulars  of  the  fortunes  of 
this  eventful  little  pile?  Let  him  go  to  the  fountain-head,  and 
drink  deep  of  historic  truth.  Reader !  the  stout  Jacob  Van 
Tassel  still  lives,  a  veneral)le,  gray-headed  patriarch  of  the 
revolution,  now  in  his  ninety-fifth  year !  lie  sits  by  his  fire- 
side, in  the  ancient  city  of  the  Manhattoes,  and  passes  the  long 
winter  evenings,  surrounded  by  his  children,  and  grand-chil- 
dren, and  great-grand-childrcu,  all  listening  to  his  tales  of  the 
border  wars,  and  the  heroic  days  of  the  Roost.  His  great 
goose-gun,  too,  is  still  in  existence,  having  been  preserved  for 
many  years  in  a  hollow  tree,  and  passed  from  hand  to  Iwiiid 
among  the  Dutch  burghers,  as  a  precious  relic  of  the  revohi- 
tion.  It  is  now  actually  in  possession  of  a  conteniporarv  of 
the  stout  Jacob,  one  almost  his  equal  iu  years,  who  treadurcs 


uig 


ES. 


A  CHRONICLE  OF  WOLFESrs  BOOST. 


23 


oils  outcry. 
iKU'icd,  lin, 

iidcrs  then 
'  I'caiitv  of 

bout.  '|{„, 
"t>  iind  t||(. 

voioc  from 
I't  lio  (heir 
'•'ir  Itouts. 
l>t'd  with  a 


ke  siioli  an 

lie  to  i-Iosi. 

vcncnililc 

tin'    CiltflS- 

'  of  one  of 
nt  prisoner 
fi'PtitcM-  part 
1  !i  inclan- 
?  standing, 
'^-  It  was 
t  iK^ighltor- 
•siiits,  that 
Jiiid  (lisas- 
3  glittering 

ortinips  of 
-head,  and 
Taool)  Van 
•ell  of  the 
•y  liis  fire- 
's the  long 
2;rand-eiiii. 
lies  of  tlie 

His  great 
served  for 
(1  to  hand 
iie  rcvolii- 
iporary  of 

treaciurcs 


It  np  at  his  house  in  the  Bowerie  of  New  Amsterdam,  iiurd 
hy  tlie  ancient  rural  retreat  of  the  chivalric  Teter  Stuyvesant. 
I  am  not  without  hopes  of  one  day  seeing  this  formidable  piece 
of  ordnanee  restored  to  its  proper  station  in  the  arsenal  of  the 
Koost. 

Hcfore  closing  this  historic  document,  I  cannot  but  advert 
to  certain  notions  and  traditions  concerning  the  venerable  pile 
ill  (juestion.  Old-time  ediliees  are  apt  to  gather  odd  fancies 
and  superstitions  alx>ut  them,  as  they  do  moss  and  weather- 
stains  ;  and  this  is  in  a  neighlx)rhood  a  little  given  to  old- 
fashioned  notions,  and  who  look  upon  the  Roost  as  somewhat 
of  a  fated  mansion.  A  lonely,  rambling,  down-  hill  lane  leads 
to  it,  overhung  with  trees,  with  a  wild  brook  dashing  along, 
and  crossing  and  re-crossing  it.  This  lane  I  found  some  of 
the  good  people  of  the  neighborhood  shy  of  treading  at  night ; 
why,  1  could  not  for  a  long  time  ascertain  ;  until  I  leart\e(i 
that  one  or  two  of  the  rovers  of  the  Tappaan  Sea,  shot  by  the 
stout  Jacob  during  the  war,  had  been  buried  hereabout,  in 
unconsecrated  ground. 

Another  local  superstition  is  of  h  less  gloomy  kind,  and  one 
which  I  confess  I  am  somewhat  disposed  to  cherish.  The 
Tappaan  Sea,  in  front  of  the  Roost,  is  about  three  miles  wide, 
bordered  by  a  lofty  line  of  waving  and  rocky  hills.  Often,  in 
the  still  twilight  of  a  sun)mer  evening,  when  the  sea  is  like 
glass,  with  the  opposite  hills  throwing  their  purple  shadows 
half  across  it,  a  low  sound  is  heard,  as  of  the  steady,  vigorous 
pull  of  oars,  far  out  in  the  middle  of  the  stream,  though  not 
a  boat  is  to  be  descried.  This  I  should  have  been  apt  to 
ascribe  to  some  boat  rowed  along  under  the  shadows  of  the 
western  shore,  for  sounds  are  conveyed  to  a  great  distance 
by  water,  at  such  quiet  hours,  and  I  can  distinctly  hear  the 
baying  of  the  watch-dogs  at  night,  from  the  farms  on  the  sides 
of  the  opposite  mountains.  The  ancient  traditiouists  of  the 
neighborhood,  however,  religiously  ascribed  these  sounds  to  a 
judgment  upon  one  Rumbout  Van  Dam,  of  Spiting  Devil,  who 
danced  and  drank  late  one  Saturday  night,  at  a  Dutch  quilt- 
ing frolic,  at  Kakiat,  and  set  off  alone  for  home  in  his  boat, 
on  the  verge  of  Sunday  morning ;  swearing  he  would  not  land 
till  he  reached  Spiting  Devil,  if  it  took  him  a  month  of  Sun. 
days.  He  was  never  seen  afterward,  but  is  often  heard  ply- 
ing his  oars  across  the  Tappaan  Sea,  a  Flying  Dutchman  on 
a  small  scale,  suited  to  the  size  of  his  cruising-ground  ;  being 
tlooraed  to  ply  between  Kakiat  and  Spiting  Devil  till  the  daj 
of  judgment,  but  never  to  reach  the  land. 


n  ■> 


Vie- 


•r 


''1  ' 


;:  : 


24 


WOLFERT'S  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


There  is  one  room  in  the  mansion  which  almost  overhangr 
the  river,  and  is  reputed  to  be  haunted  by  the  ghost  of  a 
young  lady  who  died  of  love  and  green  apples.  I  have  been 
awakened  at  night  by  the  sound  of  oars  and  the  tinkling  of 
guitars  beneath  the  window  ;  and  seeing  a  boat  loitering  iu  the 
moonlight,  have  been  tempted  to  believe  it  the  Flying  Dutch- 
man of  Spiting  Devil,  and  to  try  whether  a  silver  bullet  might 
not  put  an  end  to  his  unhappy  cruisings ;  but,  happening  to 
recollect  that  there  was  a  living  young  lady  in  the  haunted 
room,  who  might  be  terrified  by  the  report  of  firearms,  I  have 
refrained  from  pulling  trigger. 

As  to  the  enchanted  fountain,  said  to  have  been  ^;ifted  by  the 
wizard  sachem  with  supernatural  ix)wers,  it  still  wells  up  at 
the  foot  of  the  bank,  on  the  margin  of  the  river,  and  goes  by  the 
name  of  the  Indian  spring  ;  but  1  have  my  doubts  as  to  its  reju- 
venating powers,  for  though  I  have  drank  oft  and  copiously  of 
it,  I  cannot  boast  that  1  find  myself  growing  younger. 

GEOFFREY  CRAYOX. 


fl 


III.!- 


I 


SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 


BY  GEOFFREY  CUAYON,  GENT. 


t  ■( 


i  ' 


^i 


1 

1    ' 

' 

^ 

Having  pitched  my  tent,  probably  for  the  remainder  of  my 
days,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  I  am  tempted  to 
give  some  few  particulars  eoncernitig  that  spell-bound  region ; 
e?neoially  as  it  has  risen  to  historic  importance  under  the  pen 
of  my  revered  friend  and  master,  the  sage  historian  of  the  New 
Netherlands.  Beside,  1  lind  the  very  existence  of  the  place 
has  been  held  in  question  by  many ;  who,  judging  from  its  odd 
name  and  from  the  odd  stories  current  among  the  vulgar  con- 
cerning it,  have  rashly  deemed  the  whole  to  be  a  fancifui  crea- 
tion, like  the  Lubber  Land  of  mariners.  I  must  confess  iherc 
is  some  apparent  cause  for  doubt,  in  consequence  of  the  coloring.'; 
given  by  the  worthy  Diedrich  to  his  descriptions  of  the  Hollow ; 
who,  in  this  instance,  has  departed  a  little  from  his  usually  sober 
if  not  severe  styla  ;  beguiled,  very  probably,  by  his  predilection 
for  the  haunts  of  his  youth,  and  by  a  certain  lurking  taint  of 
romance  whenever  any  thing  coimected  with  the  Dutch  was  to 
be  described.  I  sliall  endeavor  to  make  up  for  this  amial)le 
error  on  the  j)art  of  my  venerable  and  venerated  friend  by  pre- 
senting the  reader  with  a  more  precise  and  statistical  account  of 


as. 

loverhangp 
;host  of  a 
[have  been 
tinkiinjr  of 
ring  in  the 
Jng  Dutch- 
lillet  niiglit 
ppening  to 
le  haunted 
IS,  I  have 

ted  by  the 
lells  up  at 
roes  by  the 
to  its  rejii- 
ipiously  of 

CRAYON. 


SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 


25 


der  of  my 
enipted  to 
id  region ; 
er  the  pen 
f  tlie  New 
the  phieo 
rn  its  Olid 
ulg'ir  con- 
:?ifui  crea- 
fess  there 
e  coloring 
B  Hollow ; 
lally  sober 
edi  lection 
I  taiut  of 
;h  was  to 
i  auiial)le 
d  by  pre- 
ccouut  of 


the  Hollow  ;  though  I  am  not  sure  that  I  shall  not  be  prone  to 
lapse  in  the  end  into  the  very  error  I  am  speaking  of,  so  potent 
is  the  witchery  of  the  theme. 

I  believe  it  was  the  very  peculiarity  of  its  name  and  the  idea 
of  something  mystic  and  dreamy  connected  with  it  that  first  led 
ne  in  ray  boyish  rambliugs  into  Sleepy  Hollow.  The  character 
of  the  valley  seemed  to  answer  to  the  name ;  the  slumber  of 
past  ages  apparently  reigned  over  it ;  it  had  not  awakened  to 
the  stir  of  improvement  which  had  put  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
in  a  bustle.  Here  reigned  good,  old  long-forgotten  fashions; 
the  men  were  in  homespun  garbs,  evidently  the  product  of  their 
owu  farms  and  the  manufacture  of  their  own  wives  ;  the  women 
were  in  primitive  short  gowns  and  petticoats,  with  the  venerable 
sun-bonnets  of  Holland  origin.  The  lower  part  of  the  valley 
was  cut  up  into  small  farms,  each  consisting  of  a  little  meadow 
and  corn-field ;  an  orchard  of  sprawling,  gnarled  apple-trees, 
and  a  garden,  where  the  rose,  the  marigold,  and  the  hollyhock 
were  permitted  to  skirt  the  domains  of  the  capacious  cabbage, 
the  aspiring  pea,  and  the  portly  pumpkin.  Each  had  its  prolific 
little  mansion  teeming  with  children ;  with  an  old  hat  nailed 
against  the  wall  for  the  housekeeping  wren ;  a  motherly  hen, 
under  a  coop  on  the  grass-plot,  clucking  to  keep  around  her  a 
brood  of  vagrant  chickens ;  a  cool,  stone  well,  with  the  moss- 
covered  bucket  susi)ended  to  the  long  balancing-pole,  according 
to  the  antediluvian  idea  of  hydraulics ;  and  its  spinning-wheel 
hununir.g  within  doors,  the  patriarchal  music  of  home  manufac- 
ture. 

The  Hollow  at  that  time  was  inhabited  by  families  which 
bad  existed  tl>"re  from  the  earliest  times,  and  which,  by  fre- 
quent iutermarii.'ge,  had  become  so  interwoven,  as  to  make  a 
kind  of  natural  commonwealth.  As  the  families  had 
larger  lue  farms  had  grown  smaller;  every  new 
requiring  a  new  subdivision,  and  few  thinking  of 
from  the  native  hive.  In  this  way  that  happy  golden  mean 
had  been  produced,  so  much  extolled  by  the  poets,  in  which 
there  was  no  gold  and  very  little  silver.  One  thing  which 
doubtless  contributed  to  keep  up  this  amiable  mean  was  a 
general  repugnance  to  sordid  labor.  The  sage  inhabitants  of 
Sleepy  Hollow  had  read  in  their  Bible,  which  was  the  only 
l)ook  they  studied,  that  labor  was  originally  inflicted  upon  man 
as  a  punishment  of  sin  ;  they  regarded  it,  therefore,  with  pious 
abhorrence,  and  never  humiliated  themselves  to  it  but  in  cases 
of  extremity.  There  seemed,  in  fact,  to  be  a  league  and  cove- 
nant against  it  throughout  the  Hollow  as  against  a  common 


grown 
generation 
swarming 


i 


I    f      ! 


26 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


*.i 


I    'I 


|;ii!:i 


enemy.  Was  any  one  compelled  by  dire  necessity  to  repair 
his  house,  nv^nd  his  fences,  build  a  barn,  or  get  in  a  harvest, 
he  considered  it  a  great  evil  that  entitled  him  to  call  in  the 
assistance  of  his  friends.  He  accordingly  proclaimed  a  '  liee ' 
or  rustic  gathering,  whereupon  all  his  neighbors  hurried  to  his 
aid  like  faithful  allies ;  attacked  the  task  with  the  desperate 
energy  of  lazy  men  eager  to  overcome  a  job ;  and,  when  it 
was  accomplished,  fell  to  eaiiupf  and  drinking,  fiddling  and 
dancing  for  very  joy  that  so  great  an  amount  of  labor  had 
been  vanquished  with  so  little  sweating  of  the  brow. 

Yet,  let  it.  not  be  supposed  that  this  worthy  community  was 
with  ut  its  periods  of  arduous  activity.  Let  but  a  flock  of  wild 
pigeons  fly  across  the  valley  and  all  Sleepy  Hollow  was  wide 
awake  in  an  instant.  The  pigeon  season  had  arrived !  Every 
gun  and  net  was  forthwith  in  requisition.  The  flail  was  throwu 
down  on  the  barn  floor ;  the  spade  rusted  in  the  garden  ;  the 
plough  stootl  idle  in  the  furrow ;  every  one  was  to  the  liill-.side 
and  stubl)le-field  at  daybreak  to  shoot  or  entrap  the  pii^^eous  iu 
their  periodical  migrations. 

So,  likewise,  let  but  the  word  be  given  that  the  shad  were 
ascending  the  Hudson,  and  the  worthies  of  the  Hollow  wore  to 
be  seen  launched  in  boats  uix)n  the  river  setting  great  stakes, 
and  stretching  their  nets  like  gigantic  spider-webs  half  across 
the  siream  to  the  great  annoyance  of  navigators.  Such  are  the 
wise  provisions  of  Nature,  by  which  she  equalizes  rural  allairs. 
A  laggard  at  the  plough  is  often  extremely  industrious  with  the 
fowling-piece  and  fishing-net ;  and,  whenever  a  man  is  an  indif- 
ferent farmer,  he  is  apt  to  be  a  first-rate  sportsman.  For  catch- 
ing shad  and  wild  pigeons  there  were  none  throughout  the 
country  to  compare  with  the  lads  of  Sleepy  Hollow. 

As  I  have  observed,  it  was  the  dreamy  nature  of  the  name 
that  first  begu"'ed  me  in  the  holiday  rovings  of  boyhood  into 
this  sequestered  region.  I  shunned,  however,  tl.te  populous 
parts  of  the  Hollow,  and  sought  its  retired  haunts  far  in  ihe 
foldings  of  the  hills,  where  the  I'ocauti  j  "  winds  its  wizard 
stream  "  sometimes  silently  and  darkly  through  solemn  wootl- 
iauds  ;  sometimes  sparkling  between  grassy  borders  in  fresh, 
green  meadows  ;  sometimes  stealing  along  the  feet  of  rn-iiied 
heights  under  the  balancing  sprays  of  beech  and  chestnut  tri'es. 
A  thousand  crystal  springs,  with  which  this  neighborhood 
abounds,  sent  down  from  the  hill-sides  their  whimpering  rills, 
as  if  to  pay  tribute  to  the  Pocantico.  In  this  stream  I  first 
essayed  my  unskilful  hand  at  angling.  I  loved  to  loiter  along 
it  with  rod  iu  hand,  watching  my  float  us  it  wluiled  amid  the 


IBS. 


SLEEP T  HOLLOW. 


2T 


ty  to  repair 
n  a  harvest 
>  call  in  the 
nied  a  '  l)ee ' 
urried  to  his 
he  desperate 
n<^>  wheu  it 
fiddling  and 
)f  labor  had 

nmunity  was 
ock  of  wild 
3w  was  wide 
ed !  Every 
was  tin-own 
garden;  tlie 
t'le  liill-.side 
•  pii,^c'ous  iu 

e  shad  were 
•How  were  to 
?reat  stakes, 

half  aercss 
Hit'h  are  the 
niral  affairs, 
oils  wit!i  the 
I  is  an  indif. 

For  cateh- 
Jughout   the 

>f  the  name 
oyliood  into 
'G   popnloiis 

fur  in  the 
'  its  wizard 
lenin  wood- 
's iu    fresh, 

of  I'uggeii 
itnut  trees, 
igliborliood 
'cring  rills, 
'am  I  lirst 
^iter  along 
1  aiuid  the 


eddies  or  drifted  into  dark  holes  under  twisted  roots  and 
sunken  logs,  where  the  largest  fish  are  apt  to  lurk.  I  de- 
lighted to  follow  it  into  the  brown  recesses  of  the  woods ;  to 
throw  by  my  fishing-gear  and  sit  upon  rocks  beneath  towering 
oaks  and  clanibering  grape-vines;  bathe  my  feet  in  the  cool 
current,  and  listen  to  the  summer  breeze  playing  among  the 
tiee-tops.  My  boyish  fancy  clothed  all  nature  around  me  with 
ideal  charms,  and  peopled  it  with  the  fairy  beings  I  had  read 
of  in  poetry  and  fable.  Here  it  was  I  gave  full  scope  to  my 
incipient  habit  of  day-dreaming,  and  to  a  certain  propensity,  to 
weave  up  and  tint  sober  realities  with  my  own  whims  and  imagin- 
ings, which  has  sometimes  made  life  a  little  too  much  like  an 
Arabian  tale  to  me,  and  this  "working-day  world  "  rather  like 
a  region  of  romance. 

The  great  gathering-place  of  Sleepy  Hollow  in  those  days 
was  the  church.  It  stood  outside  of  the  Hollow,  near  the  great 
highway,  on  a  green  bank  shaded  by  trees,  with  the  Pocantico 
sweeping  round  it  and  emptying  itself  into  a  spacious  mill-pond. 
At  that  time  the  Sleepy  Hollow  church  was  the  only  place  of 
worship  for  a  wide  neighborhood.  It  was  a  venerable  edifice, 
partly  of  stone  and  partly  of  brick,  the  l.'ter  having  been 
brought  from  Holland  in  the  early  days  of  the  province,  before 
the  arts  in  the  New  Netherlands  could  aspire  to  such  a  fabrica- 
tion. On  a  stone  above  the  porch  were  inscribed  the  names  of 
the  founders,  Frederick  Filipsen,  a  mighty  patroon  of  the  olden 
time,  who  reigned  over  a  wide  extent  of  this  neighborhood  and 
held  his  seat  of  power  at  Yonkers ;  and  his  wife,  Katrina  Van 
Courtlandt,  of  the  no  less  potent  line  of  the  Van  Courtlandts  of 
Croton,  who  lorded  it  over  a  great  part  of  the  Highlands. 

The  capacious  pulpit,  with  its  wide-spreading  sounding-board, 
were  likewise  early  importations  from  Holland ;  as  also  the 
communion-table,  of  massive  form  and  curious  fabric.  The 
same  might  be  said  of  a  weather-cock  perched  on  top  of  the 
belfry,  and  which  was  considered  orthodox  in  all  windy  mat- 
ters, until  a  small  pragmatical  rival  was  set  up  on  the  other  end 
of  the  church  above  the  chancel.  This  latter  bore,  and  still 
bears,  the  initials  of  Frederick  Filipsen,  and  assumed  great  airs 
in  consequence.  The  usual  contradiction  ensued  that  always 
exists  among  church  woather-eocks,  which  can  never  be  brought 
to  agree  as  to  the  point  from  which  the  wind  blows,  having 
doubtless  acquired,  from  their  position,  the  Christian  propen- 
sity to  Schism  and  controversy. 

Behind  the  church,  and  sloping  up  a  gentle  acclivity,  was  its 
capacious  burying-grouud,  in  which  slept  the  earliest  fathers  of 


»-3  . 


i-    I 


■)    < 


'  '       f 


i        i    : 


' 


28 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


m 


I ) 


f' 


:■-/-, 


t): 


this  rural  neighborhood.  Here  were  tombstones  of  the  rudest 
sculpture ;  on  which  wer(  inscribed,  in  Dutch,  the  names  and 
virtues  of  many  of  the  first  settlers,  with  their  portraitures 
curiously  carved  in  similitude  of  cherubs.  Long  rows  of  grave- 
stones, side  by  side,  of  similar  names,  but  various  dates, 
showed  that  generation  after  generation  of  the  same  families 
had  followed  each  other  and  been  garnered  together  in  this  last 
gathering-place  o'l  kindred. 

Let  me  speak  of  this  quiet  grave-yard  with  all  due  rever- 
ence, for  I  owe  it  amends  for  the  heedlessness  of  my  boyish 
days.  I  blush  to  acknowledge  the  thoughtless  frolic  with 
which,  in  company  with  other  whipsters,  I  have  sported  within 
its  sacred  bounds  during  the  intervals  of  worship ;  chasing  but- 
terflies, plucking  wild  flowers,  or  vying  with  each  other  who 
could  leap  over  the  tallest  tomb-stones,  until  checked  by  t)ie 
stern  voice  of  the  sexton. 

The  congregation  was,  in  those  days,  of  a  really  rural  char- 
acter. City  faahions  were  as  yei  unknown,  or  unregarded,  by 
tht  couutry  people  of  the  neighborhood.  Steamboats  had  not 
as  yet  confounded  town  with  couutry.  A  weekly  market-boat 
from  Tarrytown,  the  "Farmers'  Daughter,"  navigated  by  the 
worthy  Gabriel  Requa,  was  the  only  commuuicution  between 
all  these  parts  and  the  metropolis.  A  rustic  belle  in  *lijse  days 
considered  a  visit  to  the  city  in  much  the  same  light  as  one  of 
our  modern  fashionable  ladies  regards  a  visit  to  Europe ;  an 
event  that  may  possibly  take  place  once  in  the  course  of  a  life- 
time, but  to  be  hoped  for,  rather  than  expected.  Hence  the 
array  of  the  congregation  was  chiefly  after  the  primitive  fash- 
ions existing  in  Sleepy  Hollow ;  or  if,  by  chance,  there  was  a 
departure  from  the  Dutch  sun-bonnet,  or  the  apparition  of  a 
brig'it  gown  of  flowered  calico,  it  caused  quite  r-  sensacion 
throughout  the  church.  As  the  dominie  generally  preached 
by  the  hour,  a  bucket  of  water  was  providently  placed  on  a 
bencii  near  the  door,  in  summer,  with  a  tin  cup  beside  it,  for 
the  solace  of  those  who  might  be  athirst,  either  from  the  heat 
of  the  weather,  or  the  drought  of  the  sermon. 

Around  the  pulpit,  and  behind  the  communion-table,  sat  the 
elders  of  the  church,  reverend,  gray-headed,  leathern-visaged 
men,  whom  I  regarded  with  awe,  as  so  many  apostles.  They 
were  stern  in  their  sanctity,  kept  a  vigilant  eye  upon  my  gig- 
gling companions  and  n\  ^elf,  and  shook  a  rebuking  fingor  at 
any  boyish  device  to  relieve  the  tediousness  of  compulsory 
devotion.  Vain,  however,  were  all  their  efforts  at  vigilance. 
Scarcely  bad  the  preacher  held  forth  for  half  an  houi*,  on  one 


'ill 


TES. 


SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 


29 


the  rudest 

names  and 

portraiturea 

svs  of  grave- 
ious   dates, 

me  families 
in  this  last 

duo  rever- 

my  boyish 

frolic  with 

orted  within 
basing  but- 
other  who 

3ked  by  tlic 

rural  char- 

egarded,  by 

!vts  had  not 

market-boat 

:ated  by  the 

on   between 

1  *!;jse  days 

^  as  one  of 

Kurope;  an 

se  of  a  lifC' 

Hence  the 
initive  fash- 
there  was  a 
urition  of  a 
r-  sensation 
y  preached 
laced  on  a 
iside  it,  for 
m  the  heat 

Jle,  sat  the 
arn-visaged 
les.  They 
3n  my  gig. 
;  finger  at 
compulsory 
vigilance. 
lU',  on  one 


of  his  interminable  sermons,  than  it  seemed  as  if  the  drowsy 
influence  of  Sleepy  Hollow  breathed  into  the  place  ;  one  by  one 
the  congregation  sank  into  slumber  ;  the  sanctified  elders  leaned 
back  in  their  pews,  spreading  their  handkerchiefs  over  their 
faces,  as  if  to  keep  off  the  flies  ;  while  the  locusts  in  the  neigh- 
boring trees  would  spin  out  their  sultry  summer  notes,  as  if  in 
imitation  of  the  sleep-provoking  tones  of  the  dominie. 

I  have  thus  endeavored  to  give  an  idea  of  Sleepy  Hollow  and 
its  church,  as  I  recollect  them  to  have  been  in  the  days  of  my 
boyhood.  It  was  in  my  stripling  days,  when  a  few  years  had 
passed  over  my  head,  that  I  revisited  them,  in  co.  ipany  with 
the  venerable  Diedrich.  I  shall  never  forget  the  antiquarian 
reverence  with  which  that  sage  and  excellent  man  contem- 
plated the  church.  It  seemed  as  if  all  his  pious  enthusiasm  for 
the  ancient  Dutch  dynasty  swelled  within  his  bosom  at  the 
sight.  The  tears  stood  in  his  eyes,  as  he  regarded  the  pulpit 
and  the  communion-table ;  even  the  very  bricks  that  had  come 
from  the  mother  country,  seemed  to  touch  a  filial  chord  within 
his  bosom.  He  almost  bowed  in  deference  to  the  stone  above 
the  porch,  containing  the  names  of  Frederick  Filipsen  and 
Katrina  Van  Courtlandt,  regarding  it  as  the  linking  together  of 
those  patronymic  names,  once  so  famous  along  the  banks  of  the 
Hudson  ;  or  rather  as  a  keystone,  binding  that  mighty  Dutch 
family  connection  of  yore,  one  foot  of  which  rested  on  Yonkers, 
and  the  other  on  the  Croton.  Nor  did  he  forbear  to  notice 
with  admiration,  the  windy  contest  which  had  been  carried  on, 
since  time  immemorial,  and  with  real  Dutch  perseverance,  be- 
tween the  two  weather-cocks  ;  though  I  could  easily  perceive  he 
coincided  with  the  one  which  had  come  from  Holland. 

Together  we  paced  the  ample  church-yard.  With  deep  ven- 
eration would  he  turn  down  the  weeds  and  brambles  that  ob- 
scured the  modest  brown  grave-stones,  half  sunk  in  earth,  on 
which  were  recorded,  in  Dutch,  the  names  of  the  patriarchs  of 
ancient  days,  the  Ackers,  the  Van  Tassels,  and  the  Van  Warts. 
As  we  sat  on  one  of  the  tomb-stones,  he  recounted  to  me  the 
exploits  of  many  of  these  worthies ;  and  my  heart  smote  me, 
when  I  heard  of  their  great  doings  in  days  of  yore,  to  thlak 
how  heedlessly  I  had  once  sported  over  their  graves. 

From  the  church,  the  venerable  Diedrich  proceeded  in  his 
researches  up  the  Hollow.  Tiie  genius  of  the  place  seemed  to 
hail  its  future  historian.  All  nature  was  alive  with  gratulation. 
The  quail  whistled  a  greeting  from  the  corn-field ;  the  robin 
carolled  a  song  of  praise  from  the  orchard ;  the  loquacious 
catbird  flew  from  bush  to  bush,  with  restless  wing,  proclaiming 


J»  " 


i-ll' 


30 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


i^    li 


J 


'* '  i 


M       i 


;.)* 


(     ; 


his  approach  in  every  variety  of  note,  and  anon  would  wliisk 
about,  and  perk  inquisitively  into  his  face,  as  if  to  get  a  knowl- 
edge  of  his  physiognomy ;  the  woodpecker,  also,  tapped  a 
tattoo  on  the  hollow  apple-tree,  and  then  peered  knowirif^ly 
round  the  trunk,  to  see  how  the  great  Diedrich  relished  liis  salu- 
tation ;  while  the  ground-squirrel  scampered  along  the  fence,  unci 
occasionally  whisked  his  tail  over  his  head,  by  way  of  !i  hnzKa! 

The  worthy  Diedrich  pursued  his  researches  in  the  valley 
with  characteristic  devotion  ;  entering  familiarly  into  the  vari- 
ous cottages,  and  gossiping  with  the  simple  folk,  in  the  style 
of  their  own  simplicity.  I  confess  my  heart  yearned  with 
admiration,  to  see  so  great  a  man,  in  his  eager  quest  after 
knowledge,  humbly  demeaning  himself  to  curry  favor  with  the 
humblest ;  sitting  patiently  on  a  three-legged  stool,  patting  the 
children,  and  taking  a  purring  grimalkin  on  his  lap,  while  he 
conciliated  the  good-will  of  the  old  Dutch  housewife,  and  drew 
from  her  long  ghost  stories,  spun  out  to  the  humming  accom- 
paniment of  her  wheel. 

His  greatest  treasure  of  historic  lore,  however,  was  dis- 
covered in  an  old  goblin-looking  mill,  situated  among  rocks  and 
waterfalls,  with  clanking  wheels,  and  rushing  streams,  and  all 
kinds  of  uncouth  noises.  A  horse-shoe,  nailed  to  the  door  to 
keep  off  witches  and  evil  spirits,  showed  that  this  mill  was 
subject  to  0wful  visitations.  As  we  approached  it,  an  old  negro 
thrust  his  head,  all  dabbled  with  flour,  out  of  a  hole  above  tlie 
water-wheel,  and  grinned,  and  rolled  his  eyes,  and  looked  like 
the  very  hobgoblin  of  the  place.  The  illust'-ious  Diedrich  fixed 
upon  him,  at  once,  as  the  very  one  to  give  him  that  invaluable 
kind  of  information  never  to  be  acquired  from  l)ooks.  lie 
beckoned  him  from  his  nest,  sat  with  him  by  the  hour  on  a 
broken  mill-stone,  by  the  side  of  the  waterfall,  heedless  of  the 
noise  of  the  water,  and  the  clatter  of  the  mill ;  and  I  verily 
believe  it  was  to  his  conference  with  this  African  sage,  and  the 
precious  revelations  of  the  good  dame  of  the  spinning-wheel, 
that  we  are  indebted  for  the  surprising  though  true  history  of 
Ichabod  Crane  and  the  headless  horseman,  which  has  since 
astounded  and  edified  the  world. 

But  I  have  said  enough  of  the  good  old  times  of  my  youthful 
days ;  let  me  speak  of  the  Hollow  as  I  found  it,  after  an  ab- 
sence of  many  years,  when  it  was  kindly  given  me  once  more 
to  revisit  the  haunts  of  my  boyhood.  It  was  a  genial  day,  as  I 
approached  that  fated  region.  The  warm  sunshine  was  tem- 
pered by  a  slight  haze,  so  as  to  give  a  dreamy  effect  to  the 
landscape.     Not  a  breath  of  air  shook  the  foliage.     The  broad 


wren 


!i!> 


fould  whisk 
p  a  knowl- 

knowirifrlv 
Ins  sal  11- 

ffinw,  and 
|f  •<•  iiuzza ! 

tlio  vallo^/ 
|o  the  vari- 
1»  the  stylo 
irnod  with 
luost  after 
'1-  with  the 
xattino;  the 
h  while  he 

and  drew 
»g  accoin- 

was  dis- 
rocks  and 
IS,  and  all 
le  (l(X)r  to 
1  niill  was 
'  old  negro 
a))ove  the 
ookcd  like 
Irich  fixed 
invaluable 
3oks.     He 
liour  on  a 
ess  of  the 
I  I  verily 
N  and  the 
n,i^-whe('I, 
history  of 
has  since 

'  youthful 
T  an  ah- 
nee  more 
day,  as  I 
WHS  teln- 
et to  tlie 
he  broad 


SLEEPY  HOLLOW. 


31 


Tappaan  Sea  was  without  a  ripple,  and  the  sloops,  with  droop- 
ing sails,  slept  on  its  glassy  bosom.  Columns  of  smoke,  from 
burning  brushwood,  rose  lazily  from  the  folds  of  the  hills,  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  river,  and  slowly  expanded  in  mid-air. 
The  distant  Vowing  of  a  cow,  or  the  noontide  crowing  of  a  cock, 
coming  faintly  to  the  ear,  seemed  to  illustrate,  rather  than  dis- 
turb, the  drowsy  quiet  of  the  scene. 

I  entered  the  hollow  with  a  beating  heart.  Contrary  to  my 
apprehensions,  I  found  it  but  little  changed.  The  march  of 
intellect,  which  had  made  such  rapid  strides  along  every  river 
and  highway,  had  not  yet,  "nparently,  turned  down  into  this 
favored  valley.  Perhaps  the  izard  spell  of  ancient  days  still 
reigned  over  the  plac^,  binding  up  the  faculties  of  the  inhab- 
itants in  happy  contentment  with  things  as  they  had  been 
handed  down  to  them  from  yore.  There  were  the  same  little 
farms  and  farmhouses,  with  their  old  hats  for  the  housekeeping 
wren ;  their  stone  wells,  moss-covered  buckets  and  long  balan- 
cing poles.  There  were  the  same  little  rills,  whimpering  down 
to  pay  their  tributes  to  the  Pocantico ;  while  that  wizard  stream 
still  kept  on  its  course,  as  of  old,  through  solemn  woodlands 
and  fresh  green  meadows  :  nor  were  there  wanting  joyous  holi- 
day boys  to  loiter  along  its  banks,  as  I  have  done ;  throw 
their  pinhooks  in  the  stream,  or  launch  their  mimic  barks.  I 
watched  them  with  a  kind  of  melancholy  pleasure,  wondering 
whether  they  were  under  the  same  spell  of  the  fancy  that  once 
rendered  this  valley  a  fairy  land  to  me.  Alas !  alas !  to  me 
every  thing  now  stood  revealed  in  its  simple  reality.  The 
echoes  no  longer  answered  with  wizard  tongues ;  the  dream  of 
youth  was  at  an  end  ;  the  spell  of  Sleepy  Hollow  was  broken  ! 

I  sought  the  ancient  church  on  the  following  Sunday.  There 
it  stood,  on  its  green  bank,  among  the  trees ;  the  Pocantico 
swept  by  it  in  a  deep  dark  stream,  where  I  had  so  often 
angled  ;  there  expanded  the  mill-pond,  as  of  old,  with  the  cows 
under  the  willows  on  the  margin,  knee-deep  in  water,  chewing 
the  cud,  and  lashing  the  flies  from  their  sides  with  their  tails. 
The  hand  of  improvement,  however,  had  been  busy  with  the 
venerable  pile.  The  pulpit,  fabricated  in  Holland,  had  been 
superseded  by  one  of  modern  construction,  and  the  front  of  the 
semi-Gothic  edifice  was  decorated  by  a  semi-Grecian  portico. 
l"\)rtunately,  the  two  weather-cocks  remained  undisturl)ed  on 
liu'ir  perches  at  each  end  of  the  church,  and  still  kept  up  a  dia- 
metrical opposition  to  each  other  on  all  points  of  windy  doctrine. 

On  entering  the  church  the  changes  of  time  continued  to  be 
apparent     The  elders  round  the  pulpit  were  men  whom  1  had 


82 


WOLFERT'S  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


i»    t    '. 


A  i 


i    1 


left  in  the  gamesome  frolic  of  their  youth,  but  who  had  sue- 
ceeded  to  the  sanctity  of  station  of  which  they  once  had  stood 
so  much  in  awe.  What  most  struck  my  eye  was  the  change  in 
the  female  part  of  the  congregation.  Instead  of  the  primitive 
garbs  of  homespun  manufacture  and  antique  Dutch  fashiou,  I 
beheld  French  sleeves,  French  capes,  and  French  collars,  ami  a 
fearful  fluttering  of  French  ribbons. 

When  the  service  was  ended  I  sought  the  church-yard,  in 
which  I  had  sported  in  my  unthinking  days  of  boyhood.  Sev- 
eral of  the  modest  brown  stones,  on  which  were  recorded  in 
Dutch  the  names  and  virtues  of  the  patriarchs,  had  disappeared, 
and  had  been  succeeded  by  others  of  white  niarlile,  with  urns 
and  wreaths,  and  scraps  of  English  tomb-stone  poetry,  jnurliing 
the  intrusion  of  taste  and  literature  and  the  English  lauguago  in 
this  once  unsophisticated  Dutch  neighborhood. 

As  I  stumbled  about  among  these  silent  yet  eloquent  memo- 
rials of  the  dead,  I  came  upon  names  familiar  to  me ;  of  those 
who  had  paid  the  debt  of  nature  during  the  long  interval  of  my 
absence.  Some,  1  remembered,  my  companions  in  boyliood, 
who  had  sported  with  me  on  the  very  sod  under  which  they 
were  now  mouldering ;  others  who  in  those  days  had  boiui  the 
flower  of  the  yeomanry,  figuring  in  Sunday  finery  on  tiie  cluirch 
green;  others,  the  white-haired  elders  of  the  sanctuary,  onre 
arrayed  in  awful  sanctity  around  the  pulpit,  and  ever  ready  to 
rebuke  the  ill-timed  mirtii  of  the  wanton  stripling  who,  now 
a  man,  sobered  by  yeaia  ;ind  schooled  by  vicissitudes,  looked 
down  pensively  upon  their  graves.  "Our  fathers,"  thought  1, 
*'  where  are  they  !  — and  the  prophets,  can  they  live  forever!  " 

I  was  disturbed  in  my  meditations  l)y  the  noise  of  a  troop  of 
idle  urchins,  who  came  gambolling  about  the  place  where  I  had 
80  often  gambolled.  They  were  checked,  as  I  and  my  play- 
mates had  often  been,  by  the  voice  of  the  sexton,  a  man  staid 
in  yearfi  and  demeanor.  I  lookeil  wistfully  in  his  face  ;  if  I  had 
met  him  anywhere  else,  I  should  probably  have  passed  him 
by  without  remark  ;  but  here  I  was  alive  to  the  traces  of  for- 
mer times,  and  detected  in  the  demure  features  of  this  guardian 
of  the  sanctuary  the  lurking  lineaments  of  one  of  the  very  play- 
mates I  have  alluded  to.  We  renewed  our  acquaintance,  lie 
sat  down  beside  me,  on  one  of  the  tomb-stones  over  which  we 
had  leaped  in  our  juvenile  sports,  and  we  talked  together  al)out 
our  boyish  days,  and  held  edifying  discourse  on  the  instability 
of  all  sublunary  things,  as  instanced  in  the  scene  around  us. 
He  was  rich  in  historic  lore,  as  to  the  events  of  the  last  thirty 
years  and  the  circumference  of  thirty  miles,  and  from  him  I 


:i 


SLEEPY  nOLLOW. 


88 


had  sue. 
had  stood 
change  in 

primitive 
fasliiou,  I 
ills,  and  a 

•-yard,  in 
>od.  Sev- 
'cordt'd  in 
sappcarod, 
with  urns 
markin" 
uguage  in 

!nt  mcmo- 
;  of  those 
val  of  my 

boyhood, 
diic'h  they 

')coi)  the 
Liie  church 
lai-y,  oiu-e 
r  ready  to 
who,   now 
t's,  Uxjked 
-liought  I, 
forever  I " 
i  troop  of 
icro  I  had 
my  play- 
nmn  staid 
;  if  I  had 
Lssed   him 
es  of  for- 
1  guardian 
VGvy  phiy- 
uce.     lie 
which  we 
her  about 
instability 
round  us. 
ast  thirty 
)m  him  1 


learned  the  appalling  revolution  that  was  taking  place  through- 
out the  neighborhood.  All  this  I  clearly  perceived  he  attributed 
to  the  boasted  march  of  intellect,  or  rather  to  the  all-pervading 
influence  of  steam.  He  bewailed  the  times  when  the  only 
communication  with  town  was  by  the  weekly  market-l)oat,  the 
*' Farmers'  Daughter,"  which,  under  the  pilotage  of  the  worthy 
Gabriel  Requa,  braved  the  perils  of  the  Tappaan  Sea.  Alas ! 
Gabriel  and  the  "Farmers'  Daughter"  slept  in  peace.  Two 
steamboats  now  splashed  and  paddled  up  daily  to  the  little  rural 
port  of  Tarrytown.  The  spirit  of  speculation  and  improvement 
had  seized  even  upon  that  once  quiet  and  unambitious  little 
dorp.  The  whole  neighborhood  was  laid  out  into  town  lots. 
Instead  of  the  little  tavern  below  the  hill,  where  the  farmers 
used  to  loiter  on  market  days  and  indulge  in  cider  and  ginger- 
bread, an  ambitious  hotel,  with  cupola  and  verandas,  now 
v'rested  the  summit,  among  churches  built  in  the  Cirecian  and 
Gothic  styles,  showing  the  great  increase  of  piety  and  polite 
taste  in  the  neighborhood.  As  to  Dutch  dresses  and  sun-bon- 
nets, they  were  no  longer  tolerated,  or  even  thought  of ;  not 
a  farmer's  daughter  but  now  went  to  town  for  the  fashions ; 
nay,  a  city  milliner  had  recently  set  up  in  the  village,  who 
thrf  aliened  to  reform  the  heads  of  the  whole  neighborhood. 

1  hud  heard  enough  !  I  thanked  my  old  playmate  for  his 
intelligence,  and  departed  from  the  Sleepy  Hollow  church  with 
the  sad  conviction  that  I  had  beheld  the  last  lingerings  of  the 
good  old  Dutch  times  in  this  once  favored  region.  If  any  thing 
were  wanting  to  confirm  this  impression,  it  would  be  the  intel- 
ligence which  has  just  reached  me,  that  a  bank  is  about  to  be 
established  in  the  aspiring  little  port  just  mentioned.  The  fate 
of  the  neighborhood  is  therefore  sealed.  I  see  no  hope  of 
averting  it.  The  golden  mean  is  at  an  end.  The  country  is 
suddenly  to  be  deluged  with  wealth.  The  late  simple  farmers 
are  to  become  bank  directors  and  drink  claret  and  champagne ; 
and  their  wives  and  daughters  to  figure  in  French  hats  and 
feathers  ;  for  French  wines  and  French  fashions  commonly  keep 
pace  with  paper  money.  How  can  I  hope  that  even  Sleepy 
Hollow  can  escape  the  general  inundation  ?  In  a  little  while,  I 
fear  the  slumber  of  ages  will  be  at  an  end  ;  the  strum  of  the  piano 
will  succeed  to  the  hun*  of  the  spinning-wheel ;  the  trill  of  the 
Italian  opera  to  the  nasal  quaver  of  Ichabod  Crane ;  and  the 
antiquarian  visitor  to  the  Hollow,  in  the  petulance  of  his  disap- 
pointment, may  pronounce  all  that  1  have  recorded  of  that  once 
favored  region  a  fable.  GEOFFliEY  CKAYON. 


di 


34 


WOLFEBT'S  BOOST  AND  MlUCELLANIES. 


THE  BIRDS  OF  SPRING. 


BT  GEOFFUET  CRAYON,  GENT. 


in 


E    I 


Mt  quiet  resulence  in  tlie  country,  aloof  lorn  fasliion,  poll, 
tics,  and  the  money  market,  leaves  me  rathei  at  a  loss  for  im- 
portant occupation,  and  drives  me  to  the  study  of  natun.'.  uikI 
other  low  pursuits.  Having  few  neighbors,  also,  on  whom  to 
keep  a  watch,  and  exercise  my  habits  of  observation,  1  tun  fiUn 
to  amuse  myself  with  prying  into  the  domestic  eonccnis  and 
peculiarities  of  the  animals  around  me  ;  and,  during  i\w  prL'si-iu 
season,  have  derived  considerable  entertainment  from  ccrUiin 
sociable  'ittle  birds,  almost  the  only  visitors  we  have,  during  this 
early  part  of  the  year. 

Those  who  have  passed  the  winter  in  the  country,  are  sensihle 
of  the  delightful  influences  that  accompany  the  earliest  iiKlica- 
tions  of  spring ;  and  of  these,  none  are  more  delightful  tliiui  tlu 
first  notes  of  the  birds.  There  is  one  modest  little  sad-colort'd 
bird,  much  resembling  a  wren,  which  came  about  the  house  just 
on  the  skirts  of  winter,  when  not  a  blade  of  grass  was  to  he' 
seen,  and  when  a  few  prematurely  warm  days  had  given  a  llat- 
tering  foretaste  of  soft  weather.  He  sang  early  in  tlie  dawnin;!;, 
long  before  sunrise,  and  late  in  the  evening,  just  before  tlie 
closing  in  of  night,  his  matin  and  his  vesper  hymns.  It  is  tiiu.', 
he  sang  occasionally  throughout  the  day ;  but  at  these  still 
hours,  his  song  was  more  remarked.  He  sat  on  a  leatlfss  tree, 
just  before  the  window,  and  warbled  forth  his  notes,  free  and 
simple,  but  singularly  sweet,  with  something  of  a  [)laiutive 
tone,  that  heightened  their  effect. 

The  first  morning  that  he  was  heard,  was  a  joyous  one  anions 
the  young  folks  of  my  household.  The  long,  death-like  slccj) 
of  winter  was  at  an  end ;  nature  was  once  more  awakenin<i; 
they  now  promised  themselves  the  immediate  appearance  of 
buds  and  blossoms.  I  was  reminded  of  the  tempest-tossed  cti'w 
of  Columbus,  when,  after  their  h  ■_  ''i])ious  voyage,  the  Held 
birds  came  singing   round   the  siii^  ugh   still   far   at  sea, 

rejoicing  them  with  the  belief  of  the  immediate  proximity  of 
land.  A  sharp  return  of  winter  almost  silenced  my  littk'  son^'- 
ster,  and  dashed  the  hilarity  of  the  household ;  yet  still  \w 
l)oured  forth,  now  and  then,  a  few  plaintive  notes,  lictwecii  llic 
frosty  pipings  of  the  breeze,  like  gleams  of  sunshine  butweeu 
wintry  clouds. 


ishioii,  poll. 
OSS  for  iui- 
iiiituro.  and 
on  whom  to 
n>  I  tmi  t'liin 
Jiu'cnis  mill 
tlie  prcsi'iil 
oin  C'cilaiii 
,  during  this 

are  soiiHil)h> 

liost  iiidica- 

-ful  th;ui  tii( 

Siul-colorcd 

e  house!  just 

IS  was  to  he 

Siven  a  llal- 

lie  (hiwuin;:, 

t   bi'foie  tlie 

It  is  truo, 

t   tlicsc  still 

[(.'iith'ss  tree, 

OS,  free  and 

a  phiiutive 

s  one  anioii;^ 
Lh-lii^e  sU'cp 
iiwakeninji' ; 
[)earanco  of 
-tossed  erew 
<j;e,  the  lield 
far  at  sea, 
troxiniity  oi 
'  little  son<4- 
yet  still  iic 
K'tweeii  the 
iue  between 


THE  BIRDS  OF  SPRING.  86 

I  have  consulted  my  book  of  ornithology  in  vain,  to  find  out 
the  name  of  this  kindly  little  bird,  who  certainly  deserves  lioiior 
and  favor  far  beyond  his  modest  pretensions.  lie  comes  like  tht; 
lowly  violet,  the  most  unpretendinsjf,  but  welcomest  of  flowers, 
breathing  the  sweet  promise  of  the  early  year. 

Another  of  our  feathered  visitors,  who  follows  close  upon  the 
steps  of  winter,  is  the  Pe-wit,  or  Pe-wee,  or  Pha>be-bird  ;  for 
he  is  called  by  each  of  these  names,  from  a  fancied  resemblance 
to  the  sound  of  his  monotonous  note.  He  is  a  sociable  little 
being,  and  seeks  the  habitation  of  man.  A  pair  of  them  have 
built  beneath  my  porch,  and  have  reared  several  broods  there 
for  two  years  past,  their  nest  being  never  disturbed.  They 
arrive  early  in  the  spring,  just  when  the  crocus  and  the  snow- 
drop begin  to  peep  forth.  Their  first  chirp  spreads  gladness 
through  the  house.  "The  Phoebe-birds  have  come!"  is  heard 
on  all  sides ;  they  are  welcomed  back  like  members  of  the 
family,  and  speculations  are  made  upon  where  they  have  been, 
and  what  countries  they  have  seen  during  their  long  absence. 
Their  arrival  is  the  more  cheering,  as  it  is  pronounced,  by  the 
old  weather-wise  people  of  the  country,  the  sure  sign  that  the 
severe  frosts  are  at  an  end,  and  that  the  gardener  may  resume 
his  labors  with  confidence. 

About  this  time,  too,  arrives  the  Bluebird,  so  poetically  yet 
truly  described  by  Wilson.  His  appearance  gladdens  the  whole 
landscape.  You  hear  his  soft  warble  in  every  field.  He  sociably 
approaches  your  habitation,  and  takes  up  his  residence  in  your 
vicinity.  But  why  should  I  attempt  to  describe  him,  when  I 
have  Wilson's  own  graphic  verses  to  place  him  before  the 
reader  ? 


When  winter's  cold  tempcBts  and  snows  are  no  more, 

Orucn  moadowH  and  brown  furrowed  flelda  reappearing : 
The  litihurineii  hauling  their  shad  to  the  shore, 

And  cloud-cluaving  geese  to  the  lalies  are  a-steering; 
When  tirHt  the  lone  butterfiy  flits  on  the  wing, 

When  red  glow  the  maples,  so  fresh  and  so  pleasing, 
O  then  comes  tlie  Bluebird,  the  herald  of  spring, 

And  hails  with  his  warblinga  the  charms  of  the  seasou. 

The  loud-piping  frogs  make  the  raarsbes  to  ring; 

Then  warm  glows  the  sunshine,  and  warm  glows  the  weather; 
The  blue  woodland  llowers  jiint  beginning  to  spring. 

And  spice- wood  and  sassafras  budding  together; 
O  then  to  your  gardens,  ye  housewives,  repair. 

Your  wallts  border  up,  sow  and  plant  at  your  leisure; 
The  niuebird  will  cbaiit  t'roiu  his  box  such  an  air, 

That  allyour  hard  loiU  will  seeiu  truly-  a  pleasurel 


I 


m 


^:k 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANlSa. 


h\ i \  ■}. 


!  I 


He  HitH  throiiKb  thn  orcbkrd,  he  vIhIU  each  tree, 

Thu  red  lluworint;  peach,  and  the  applo'i  iweet  bloMomi; 
He  minpH  up  (k'«troyiTf<,  wherever  they  be, 

And  HeizeH  the  cultifTN  that  hirk  in  their  bosoma; 
He  druKH  the  vile  grub  f  rum  the  corn  It  devuura, 

The  wu  niH  frum  the  weba  where  they  riot  and  welUr; 
nu  gong  and  hlH  gervlceH  freely  are  ourH, 

And  all  thitl  he  ohIch  la,  lu  aummcr  a  ahelter. 

The  plotiRhnian  Is  pleased  when  be  gleam*  in  hU  train, 

Now  searching  the  furrowH,  now  mounting  to  cheer  htm; 
The  gitrd'ner  delightH  In  hU  Hweet  Himpio  Htraln, 

And  leanK  on  his  Hpudo  to  survey  and  to  hear  him. 
The  Blow  lingering  Hchool-boyg  forget  they'll  be  chid, 

While  Kuzing  Intent,  uh  he  warbles  before  them, 
In  mantle  of  sky-blue,  and  bosom  so  red. 

That  each  little  loiterer  seems  to  adore  bim. 

The  liap[)iost  bird  of  our  spring,  however,  and  one  that  rivals 
the  Kuropt'iin  hirlv,  in  my  estimation,  is  tiie  Bobolincon,  or  HoIm)- 
link,  as  hti  is  commonly  called.  He  arrives  at  that  choice  por- 
tion of  our  year,  which,  in  this  latitude,  ans\,ers  to  the  descrip- 
tion of  tlie  month  of  May,  so  often  given  by  '•"  poets.  With 
us,  it  begins  about  the  middle  of  May,  and  lasts  until  nearly 
the  middle  of  June.  Earlier  than  this,  winter  is  apt  to  return 
on  its  traces,  and  to  blight  the  opening  beauties  of  the  year; 
and  later  than  this,  begin  the  parching,  and  panting,  and  dis- 
solving heats  of  summer.  But  in  this  genial  interval,  nature  is 
iu  all  her  fivshness  and  fragrance:  "the  rains  are  over  and 
gone,  the  flowers  appear  upon  the  earth,  the  time  of  the  sing- 
ing of  birds  is  come,  and  the  voice  of  the  turtle  is  heard  in  the 
land."  The  trees  are  now  in  tlieir  fullest  foliage  and  bright- 
est verdure ;  the  woods  are  gay  with  the  clustered  flowers  of 
the  laurel ;  ti.e  air  is  perfumed  by  the  sweet-briar  and  the  wiKi 
rose  ;  the  meadows  are  enamelled  with  clover-blossoms  ;  while 
the  young  apple,  the  peach,  and  the  plum,  begin  to  swell,  and 
the  cherry  to  glow,  among  the  green  leaves. 

This  is  the  chosen  season  of  revelry  of  the  Bobolink.  He 
comes  amidst  the  pomp  and  fragrance  of  the  season  ;  his  life 
seems  all  sensibility  and  enjoyment,  all  song  and  sunshine. 
He  is  found  in  the  soft  bosoms  of  the  freshest  and  sweetest 
meadows  ;  and  is  most  in  song  when  the  clover  is  in  blossom. 
He  [)erches  on  the  topmost  twig  of  a  tree,  or  on  some  long 
flaunting  weed,  and  as  he  rises  and  sinks  with  the  breeze,  pours 
forth  a  succession  of  rich  tinkling  notes  ;  crowding  one  upon 
another,  like  the  outpouring  melody  of  the  skylark,  and  pos- 
sessing the  same  rapturous   character.     Sometimes  he  pitches 


I 


I 


THE  BIRDS  OF  SPRING. 


87 


that  rivals 
'i  or  Hol)()- 

lioice  por- 
le  (lescrip- 
?ts.  With 
ntil  ueariy 
•  to  return 

tlie  year; 
',■,  and  dis- 
,  nature  is 

over  and 

the  sino;- 
'ard  in  the 
nd  brigiit- 
(lowers  of 
d  the  \vil(i 
ins  ;  while 
swell,  and 

link.     He 

I ;  his  life 

sunshiue, 

I  sweetest 

blossom, 
lome  long 
2ze,  pours 
one  upon 

and  pos- 
le  pitcbes 


i 


from  the  summit  of  a  tree,  begins  his  song  as  soon  as  be  gets 
upon  the  wing,  and  tlutters  tremulously  down  to  the  earth,  as 
if  overcome  with  ecstasy  at  his  own  music.  Sometimes  he  is 
in  pursuit  of  his  paramour ;  always  in  full  song,  as  if  he  would 
win  her  by  his  melody ;  and  always  with  the  same  appearance 
of  intoxication  and  delight. 

Of  all  the  birds  of  our  groves  and  meadows,  the  Bobolink  was 
the  envy  of  my  boyhood.  He  crossed  my  path  in  the  sweetest 
weather,  and  the  sweetest  season  of  the  year,  when  all  nature 
called  to  the  fields,  and  the  rural  feeling  throbbed  in  every 
bosom  ;  but  when  I,  luckless  urchin  !  was  doomed  to  be  mewed 
ui),  during  the  livelong  day,  in  that  purgatory  of  boyaood,  a 
school-room.  It  seemed  as  if  the  little  varlet  mocked  at  me,  as 
he  Uew  by  in  full  song,  and  sought  to  taunt  me  with  his  happier 
lot.  Oh,  how  1  envied  him  !  No  lesson,  no  tasks,  no  Uateful 
school ;  nothing  but  holiday,  frolic,  green  fields,  and  flue  weather. 
Had  I  been  then  more  versed  in  poetry,  1  might  have  addressed 
him  in  the  words  of  Logan  to  the  Cuckoo : 

Bweel  bird!  thy  bower  la  ever  green, 

Thy  Hky  Is  ever  clear; 
Thou  bast  no  Borrow  iu  thy  note, 

No  winter  Id  thy  year. 

Oh!  could  I  fly,  I'd  fly  with  thee; 

We'd  luaku,  on  joyful  wing, 
Our  annual  vUit  round  the  globe, 

ConipanioDH  of  the  Hpring! 

Farther  observation  and  experience  have  given  me  a  different 
idea  of  this  little  feathered  voluptuary,  which  I  will  venture  to 
impart,  for  the  benefit  of  my  schoolboy  readers,  who  may 
regard  him  with  the  same  unqualified  envy  and  admiration  which 
I  once  indulged.  1  have  shown  him  only  as  I  saw  him  at  first, 
in  what  I  may  call  the  poetical  part  of  his  career,  when  he  in  a 
manner  devoted  himself  to  elegant  pursuits  and  enjoyments, 
and  was  a  bird  of  music,  and  song,  and  taste,  and  sensibility, 
and  refinement.  While  this  lasted,  he  was  sacred  from  injury  ; 
the  very  schoolboy  would  not  fling  a  stoue  at  him,  and  the 
merest  rustic  would  pause  to  listen  to  his  strain.  But  mark  the 
differeuce.  As  tLj  year  advances,  as  the  clover-blossoms  disap- 
pear, and  the  spring  fades  into  summer,  his  notes  cease  to 
vibrate  on  the  ear.  He  gradually  gives  up  his  elegant  tastes 
and  habits,  doffs  his  poetical  and  professional  suit  of  black, 
assumes  a  russet  or  rather  dusty  garb,  and  enters  into  the  gross 


'.: 


|:( 


38 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


m  \i 


\Mi» 


|,^? 


enjoyments  of  common,  vulgar  birds.  He  becomes  a  bon« 
vivant,  a  mere  gourmand  ;  thinking  of  nothing  but  good  cheer, 
and  gormandizing  on  the  seeds  of  the  long  grasses  on  which  ! 
lately  swung  and  chanted  so  musically.  He  begins  to  tliink 
there  is  nothing  like  "the  joys  of  the  table,"  if  I  may  be 
allowed  to  apply  that  convivial  phrase  to  his  indulgences.  He 
now  grows  discontented  with  plain,  every-day  fare,  and  sots 
out  ou  a  gastronomical  tour,  in  search  of  foreign  luxuries.  He 
is  to  be  found  in  myriads  among  the  reeds  of  the  Delaware, 
banqueting  on  their  seeds  ;  grows  corpulent  with  good  feeding, 
and  soon  acquires  the  unlucky  renown  of  the  Ortolan.  Wliere- 
ever  he  goes,  pop !  pop  !  pop  !  the  rusty  firelocks  of  the  country 
are  cracking  on  every  side ;  he  sees  his  companions  falling  by 
thousands  around  him ;  he  is  the  Reed-bird^  the  much-souglit- 
tor  tidbit  of  the  Pennsylvanian  epicure. 

Does  he  take  warning  and  reform  ?  Not  he  !  He  wings  his 
flight  still  farther  south,  in  search  of  other  luxuries.  We  hear 
of  him  gorging  himself  in  the  rice  swamps  ;  filling  himself  with 
rice  almost  to  bursting ;  he  can  hardly  fly  for  corpulency. 
Last  stage  of  his  career,  we  hear  of  him  spitted  by  dozens,  and 
served  up  on  the  table  of  the  gourmand,  the  most  vaunted  of 
southern  dainties,  the  Rice-hird  of  the  Carolinas. 

Such  is  the  story  of  the  once  musical  and  admired,  but  finally 
sensual  and  persecuted  Bobolink.  It  contains  a  moral,  worthy 
the  attention  of  all  little  birds  and  little  boys  ;  warning  them  to 
keep  to  those  refined  and  intellectual  pursuits,  which  raised  him 
to  so  high  a  pitch  of  popularity,  during  the  early  part  of  his 
career ;  but  to  eschew  all  tendency  to  that  gross  and  dissipated 
indulgence,  which  brought  this  mistaken  little  bird  to  an  untimely 
end. 

Which  is  all  at  present,  from  the  well  wisher  of  little  boys 
and  little  birds, 

GEOFFREY  CRAYON. 


RECOLLECTIONS   OF  THE  ALHAMBRA. 


i    i 


BY   THE    AUTHOB   OP   THE    SKETCH-BOOK. 

During  a  summer's  residence  in  the  old  Moorish  palace  of  the 
Alhambra,  of  whicli  I  have  already  given  numerous  anecdotes 
to  the  public,  I  used  to  pass  much  of  my  time  in  the  beautiful 
hall  of  tlie  Abencerrages,  beside  the  fountain  celebrated  in  the 


T- .V  ;-=,-  ^ »--»-  'f  ■  y~!  \(..^k>.«>  w  , 


-'♦•■-I*  ^-'»ptf*>r. -i^j'"*'*  "►^ 


IE8. 

Ties    a  bon. 

good  cheer, 
on  which  ! 
ins  to  think 
I  may  l)e 
fences.  He 
re,  and  sets 
xuries.  He 
e  Delaware, 
)od  feeding, 
lu.     Wliere- 

the  country 
s  falling  by 
mch-souglit- 

le  wings  his 
3.  We  hear 
himself  with 
corpulency, 
dozens,  and 
t  vaunted  of 

i,  but  finally 
oral,  worthy 
Ding  them  to 
h  raised  liiin 
r  part  of  his 
id  dissipated 
I  an  untimely 

f  little  boys 
Y  CRAYON. 


RA. 


palace  of  the 
us  anecdotes 
;he  beautiful 
irated  in  the 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  ALHAMBRA. 


39 


tragic  story  of  that  devoted  race.  Here  it  was,  that  thirty-six 
cavaliers  of  that  heroic  line  were  treacherously  sacrificed,  to 
appease  the  jealousy  or  allay  the  fears  of  a  tyrant.  The  foun- 
tain which  now  throws  up  its  sparkling  jet,  and  sheds  a  dewy 
freshness  around,  ran  red  with  the  noblest  blood  of  Granada, 
and  a  deep  stain  on  the  marble  pavement  is  still  pointed  out,  by 
the  cicerones  of  the  pile,  as  a  sanguinary  record  of  the  massacre. 
1  have  regarded  it  with  the  same  determined  faith  with  which  I 
have  regarded  the  traditional  stains  of  Rizzio's  blood  on  the 
floor  of  the  chamber  of  the  unfortunate  Mary,  at  Holyrood.  I 
thank  no  one  for  endeavoring  to  enlighten  my  credulity,  on  such 
points  of  popular  belief.  It  is  like  breaking  up  the  shrine  of 
the  pilgrim  ;  it  is  robbing  a  poor  traveller  of  half  the  reward 
of  his  toils ;  for,  strip  travelling  of  its  historical  illusions,  and 
what  a  mere  fag  you  make  of  it ! 

For  my  part,  1  gave  myself  up,  during  my  sojourn  in  the 
Alhambra,  to  all  the  romantic  and  fab<ilous  traditions  connected 
\nth  the  pile.  I  lived  in  the  midst  of  an  Arabian  tale,  and  shut 
my  eyes,  as  much  as  possible,  to  every  thing  that  called  me  back 
to  every-day  life  ;  and  if  there  is  any  country  in  Europe  where 
one  can  do  so,  it  is  in  poor,  wild,  legendary,  proud-spirited, 
romantic  Spain  ;  where  the  old  magnificent  barbaric  spirit  still 
contends  against  the  utilitarianism  of  modern  civilization. 

In  the  silent  and  deserted  halls  of  the  Alhambra ;  surrounded 
with  the  insignia  of  regal  sway,  and  the  still  vivid,  though  dilapi- 
dated traces  of  oriental  voluptuousness,  I  was  in  the  stronghold 
of  Moorish  story,  and  every  thing  spoke  and  breathed  of  the 
glorious  days  of  Granada,  when  under  the  dominion  of  the  cres- 
cent. When  I  sat  in  the  hall  of  the  Abencerrages,  I  suffered 
my  mind  to  conjure  up  all  that  I  had  read  of  that  illustrious 
line.  In  the  proudest  days  of  Moslem  domination,  the  Aben- 
cerrages were  the  soul  of  every  thing  noble  and  chivalrous. 
The  veterans  of  the  family,  who  sat  in  the  royal  co'mcil,  were 
the  foremost  to  devise  those  heroic  enterprises,  which  carried 
dismay  into  the  territories  of  the  Christians  ;  and  what  the  sages 
of  the  family  devised,  the  young  men  of  the  name  were  the 
foremost  to  execute.  In  all  services  of  hazard  ;  in  all  adven- 
turous forays,  and  hair-breadth  hazards  ;  the  Abencerrages  were 
sure  to  win  the  brightest  laurels.  In  those  noble  recreations, 
too,  which  bear  so  close  an  affinity  to  war ;  in  the  tilt  and  tour- 
ney, the  riding  at  the  ring,  and  the  daring  bull-fight ;  still  the 
Abencerrages  carried  off  the  palm.  None  could  equal  them  for 
the  splendor  of  their  array,  the  gallantry  of  their  devices  ; 
tlioir  nnh\p  bp.<inn(r.  and  srlorious  horsemanship.     Their  o 


for 
open 


.'  ■}• 


W 


W 


40 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


/ 


m 


handed  munificence  made  them  the  idols  of  the  populace,  while 
their  lofty  magnanimity,  and  perfect  faith,  gained  them  golden 
opinions  from  the  generous  and  high-minded.  Never  were  they 
known  to  decry  tlie  merits  of  a  rival,  or  to  betray  the  confidiims 


of  a  friend  ;  and  the  "  word  of  an  Abencerrage 


was  a  guar- 


anty that  never  admitted  of  a  doubt. 

And  then  their  devotion  to  the  fair !  Never  did  ISIoorish 
beauty  consider  the  fame  of  lier  charms  established,  until  she 
had  an  Abencerrage  for  a  lover ;  and  never  did  an  Abeuccrra'Te 
prove  recreant  to  his  vows.  Lovely  Granada !  City  of  delights  I 
Who  ever  bore  the  favors  of  thy  dames  more  proudly  on  their 
casques,  or  championed  them  more  gallantly  in  the  chivalrous 
tilts  of  the  Vivarambla?  Or  who  ever  made  thy  moonlit 
balconies,  thy  gardens  of  myrtles  and  roses,  of  oranges,  citrons, 
and  pomegranates,  respond  to  more  tender  serenades  ? 

I  speak  with  enthusiasm  on  this  theme ;  for  it  is  connected 
with  the  recollection  of  one  of  the  sweetest  evenings  and 
sweetest  scenes  that  ever  I  enjoyed  in  Spain.  One  of  the 
greatest  pleasures  of  the  Spaniards  is,  to  sit  in  the  beautiful 
summer  evenings,  and  listen  to  traditional  ballads,  and  tales 
about  the  wars  of  the  Moors  and  Christians,  and  the  "  bueuas 
andanzas  "  and  "  grandes  hechos,"  the  "good  fortunes"  and 
"  great  exploits  "  of  the  hardy  warriors  of  yore.  It  is  worthy 
of  remark,  also,  that  many  of  these  songs,  or  romances,  as  they 
are  called,  celebrate  the  prowess  and  magnanimity  in  war,  ami 
the  tenderness  and  fidelity  in  love,  of  the  Moorish  cavaliers, 
once  their  most  formidable  and  hated  foes.  But  centuries  have 
elapsed,  to  extinguish  the  bigotry  of  the  zealot ;  and  the  once 
detested  warriors  of  Granada  are  now  hold  up  by  Spanish 
poets,  as  the  mirrors  of  chivalric  virtue. 

Such  was  the  amusement  of  the  evening  in  question.  A 
number  of  us  were  seated  in  the  Hall  of  the  Abencerragcs, 
listening  to  one  of  the  most  gifted  and  fascinating  })eiugs  that  I 
had  ever  met  with  in  my  wanderings.  She  was  young  and 
beautiful ;  and  light  and  ethereal  ;  full  of  fire,  and  spirit,  and 
pure  enthusiasm.  She  wore  the  fanciful  Andalusian  dress ; 
touched  the  guitar  witli  speaking  eloquence  ;  improvised  with 
wonderful  facility  ;  and,  as  she  became  excited  by  her  theme, 
or  by  the  rapt  attention  of  her  auditors,  would  pour  forth,  in 
the  richest  and  most  melodious  strains,  a  succession  of  couplets, 
full  of  striking  description,  or  stirring  narration,  and  composed, 
as  I  was  assured,  at  the  moment.  Most  of  these  were  suff^ested 
by  the  place,  and  related  to  the  ancient  glories  of  Graiiad.., 
and  the  prowess  of  her  chivalry.     The  Abencerragcs  were  lier 


ES. 

ilace,  while 
bem  gokltMi 
r  were  they 
i  confidinixs 
svas  a  giiur- 

kl  Moorish 
d,  until  siie 
Lbencerrage 
)f  delights  ! 
lly  on  thoir 
chivalrous 
hy  moonlit 
;es,  citrons, 
I? 

1  connected 
snings  and 
)ne  of  the 
le  beautiful 
,  and  tales 
le  "  l)uena3 
uues  "  and 
[t  is  wortiiy 
:'es,  as  they 
in  war.  and 
1  cavaliers, 
turies  have 
id  the  once 
•y  Spanish 

estion.  A 
cncerrages, 
iugs  that  I 
young  and 
spirit,  and 
ian  dress ; 
>vised  with 
her  theme, 
ir  forth,  in 
)f  couplets, 
composed, 
I  suggested 
(jranad.i, 
s  were  Ikt 


THE  ABENCERBAGE. 


41 


favorite  heroes  ;  she  felt  a  woman's  admiration  of  their  gallant 
courtesy,  and  high-souled  honor ;  and  it  was  touching  and  in- 
spiring to  hear  the  praises  of  that  generous  but  devoted  race, 
chanted  in  this  fated  hall  of  their  calamity,  by  the  lips  of 
Spanish  beauty. 

Among  the  subjects  of  which  she  trented,  was  a  tale  of  Mos- 
lem honor,  and  old-fashioned  Spanish  courtesy,  which  made  a 
strong  impression  on  me.     She  disclaimed  all  merit  of  inven- 
tion, however,  and  said  she  liad   merely  dilated  into  verse  a 
popular  tradition ;   and,  indeed,  I  have  since  found  the  main 
facts  inserted  at  the  end  of  Conde's  History  of  the  Domination 
of  the  Arabs,  and  the  story  itself  embodied  in  the  form  of  an 
episode  in  the  Diana  of  Montemayor.     From  these  sources  I 
have  drawn  it  forth,  and  endeavored  to  shape  it  according  to 
my  recollection  of  the  version  of  the  beautiful  minstrel ;  but, 
alas !  what  can  supply  the  want  of  that  voice,  that  look,  that 
form,  that  action,  which  gave  magical  effect  to  her  chant,  and 
held   every  one   rapt   in   lireathless   admiration !     Should   this 
mere  traves^^y  of  her  inspired  numbers  ever  meet  her  eye,  in 
her  stately     bode   at  Granada,  may  it  meet  with  that  indul- 
gence which  belongs  to  her  benignant  nature.     Happy  should 
I  be,  if  it  could  awaken  in  her  bosom  one  kind  recollection  of 
the  lonely  stranger  and  sojourner,  for  whose  gratification  she 
did  not  think  it  beneath  her  to  exert  those  fascinating  powers 
which  were  the  delight  of  brilliant  circles  ;  and  who  will  ever 
recall  wit'.:  enthusiasm  the  happy  evening  passed  in  listening 
to  her  strains,  in  the  moonlit  halls  of  the  Alhambra. 

GEOFFREY  CRAYON, 


THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


A    SPANISH    TALE. 


On  the  summit  of  a  craggy  hill,  a  spur  of  the  mountains  of 
Rouda,  stands  the  castle  of  AUora,  now  a  mere  ruin,  infested 
by  bats  and  owlets,  but  in  old  times  one  of  the  strong  border 
holds  of  the  Christians,  to  keep  watch  upon  the  frontiers  of  the 
warlike  kingdom  of  Granada,  and  to  hold  the  Moors  in  check. 
It  was  a  post  always  confided  to  some  well-tried  commander ; 
and,  at  the  time  of  which  we  treat,  was  held  by  Rodrigo  de 
Narvaez,  a  veteran,  famed,  both  among  Moors  and  Christians, 
not  only  for  his  hardy  feats  of  arms,  but  also  for  that  magnani- 


1    ^ 


42 


WOLFEBT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


'\  T 


!! 


,  1.' 


inous  courtesy  wliich  should  ever  be  intwined  with  the  sterner 
virtues  of  the  soldier. 

The  castle  of  Allora  was  a  mere  part  of  his  command  ;  he  was 
Alcayde,  or  military  governor  of  Antiquora,  Imt  he  passed  most 
of  his  time  at  this  frontier  post,  because  its  situaiion  on  t!ie 
borders  gave  more  frequent  opportunity  for  those  adventurous 
exploits  which  were  the  delight  of  the  Spanish  clnvalry.  Mis 
garrison  consisted  of  fifty  chosen  cavaliers,  all  well  mounloil 
and  well  appointed :  with  these  he  kept  vigilant  watch  upon 
the  Moslems  ;  patrolling  the  roads,  and  paths,  and  defiles  of 
the  mountains,  so  that  nothing  could  escape  his  eye  ;  and  now 
and  then  signalizing  himself  by  some  dashing  foray  into  llic 
very  Vega  of  Granada. 

On  a  fair  and  beautiful  night  in  summer,  when  the  freshness 
of  the  evening  breeze  had  tempered  the  heat  of  day,  ilu; 
worthy  Alcayde  sallied  forth,  with  nine  of  his  cavaliers,  to 
patrol  the  neighborhood,  and  seek  adventures.  They  roiU' 
quietly  and  cautiously,  lest  they  should  be  overheard  by  Moor- 
ish scout  or  traveller;  and  kept  along  ravines  and  liollow 
ways,  lest  they  should  be  betrayed  by  the  glittering  of  the  full 
moon  upon  their  armor.  Coming  to  where  the  road  divided, 
the  Alcayde  directed  five  of  his  cavaliers  to  take  one  of  tln' 
branches,  while  he,  with  the  remaining  foei',  would  take  the 
other.  Should  either  party  be  in  danger,  the  blast  of  a  horn 
was  to  be  the  signal  to  bring  their  comrades  to  their  aid. 

The  party  of  five  had  not  proceeded  far,  when,  in  passin<i; 
through  a  defile,  overhung  with  trees,  they  hea'-d  the  voice  of 
a  man,  singing.  Tiiey  immediately  concealed  themselves  in 
a  grove,  on  the  brow  of  a  declivity,  up  which  the  stranger 
would  have  to  ascend.  The  moonlight,  which  left  the  grove  in 
deep  shadow,  lit  up  the  whole  person  of  the  wayfarer,  us  In- 
advanced,  and  enabled  them  to  distinguish  his  dress  and  ai)p(';u- 
ance  with  perfect  accuracy.  lie  was  a  Moorisli  cavalier,  lunl 
his  noble  demeanor,  graceful  carriage,  and  spkMidid  atlirc 
showed  him  to  be  of  lofty  rank.  He  was  sui)crbly  mounted,  on 
a  dapple-gray  steed,  of  powerful  frame,  anil  generous  spirit, 
and  magnificently  caparisoned.  Ilis  dress  was  a  marlota,  or 
tunic,  and  an  Albernoz  of  crimson  damask,  fringed  with  gold. 
His  Tunisian  turban,  of  many  folds,  was  of  silk  and  cotton, 
striped,  and  bordered  with  golden  fringe.  At  his  girdle  hunu; 
a  cimeter  of  Damascus  steel,  with  loops  and  tassels  of  silk  and 
gold.  On  his  left  arm  he  bore  an  a'nple  target,  and  his  right 
hand  grasped  a  long  double-pointed  'ance.  Thus  ecpiipped,  he 
sat  negligently  on  his  steed,  as  one  vlio  dreamed  of  no  datiger, 


I    '!■ 


»T*..*»>«»^<-ll*.»- 


?s. 


THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


43 


tbe  sterner 

nd ;  he  was 
asset!  most 
ion  on  the 
(Ivonturoiis 
»alry.  His 
11  mounti'il 
/ateh  upoi! 
defiles  of 
and  now 
ay  into  llic 

e  freslnicss 
f  day,  tlu! 
^valiers,   to 

They  rode 
d  by  Moor- 
and    hollow 

of  the  full 
ad  divided, 

one  of  tln' 
Id  take  tlie 
t  of  a  honi 
aid. 

in  passiii'i; 
-he  voice  of 
?niselves  in 
he  stranifcr 
the  grove  in 
'arer,  us  iic 
and  appcur 
avalier,  Miid 
Pidid  atlirc 
nonnted,  on 
irons  spirit, 
marlota,  or 
I  with  f2;old. 
and  cotton, 
ijirdle  luniu; 
of  silk  and 
nd  his  riijlit: 
qnipped,  lie 

no  daug"r, 


gazing  on  the  moon,  and  singing,  with  a  sweet  and  manly 
voice,  a  Moorish  love  ditty. 

Just  opposite  the  place  where  the  Spanish  cavaliers  were 
concealed,  was  a  small  fountair  in  the  rock,  beside  the  road, 
to  which  the  horse  turned  to  drin.v ;  the  rider  threw  the  reins  on 
his  neck,  and  continued  his  song. 

The  Spanish  cavaliers  conferred  together ;  they  were  all  so 
pleased  with  the  gallant  and  gentle  appearance  of  the  Moor, 
that  they  resolved  not  to  harm,  tut  to  capture  him,  which,  in 
his  negligent  mood,  promised  to  be  an  easy  task;  rushin", 
therefore  from  their  concealment,  they  thought  to  surrouml 
and  seize  him.  Never  were  men  more  mistaken.  To  gather 
up  his  reins,  wheel  round  his  steed,  brace  his  buckler,  and 
couch  his  lance,  was  tiie  work  of  an  instant ;  and  there  he  sat, 
fixed  like  a  castle  in  his  saddle,  beside  the  fountain. 

The  Christian  cavaliers  cheeked  their  steeds  and  reconnoitred 
him  warily,  loath  to  come  to  an  encounter,  which  must  end  in 
his  destruction. 

The  Moor  now  held  a  parley :  "  If  you  be  true  knights,"  said 
he,  "and  seek  for  honorable  fame,  come  on,  singly,  and  I  am 
ready  to  meet  each  in  succession  ;  but  if  you  be  mere  Inrkers  of 
the  road,  intent  on  s^joil,  come  all  at  once,  and  do  your  worst !  " 

The  cavaliers  communed  for  a  moment  apart,  when  one,  ad- 
vancing singly,  exclaimed:  "Although  no  law  of  chivalry 
obliges  us  to  risk  the  loss  of  a  prize,  when  clearly  in  our  power, 
yet  we  willingly  grant,  as  a  courtesy,  what  we  might  refuse  as  a 
right.     Valiant  Moor  !  defend  thyself !  " 

So  saying,  he  wheeled,  took  proper  distance,  couched  his 
lance,  and  putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  made  at  the  stranger. 
The  lattei  met  him  in  mid  career,  transpierced  him  with  his 
lance,  and  threw  him  headlong  from  his  paddle.  A  second  and 
a  third  succeeded,  but  were  unhorsed  with  equal  facility,  and 
thrown  to  the  earth,  severely  wounded.  The  remaining  inro, 
seeing  their  comrades  thus  roughly  treated,  forgot  all  compact 
of  courtesy,  and  charged  both  at  once  upon  the  Moor.  He 
|)arried  the  thrust  of  one,  but  was  wounded  by  the  other  in  the 
thigh,  and,  in  the  shock  and  confusion,  dropped  his  lance. 
Thus  disarmed,  and  closely  pressed,  he  pretended  to  fly,  and 
was  hotly  [)ursued.  Having  diawn  the  two  cavaliers  some  dis- 
tance from  the  spot,  he  suddenly  wheeled  short  about,  with  one 
of  those  dexterous  movements  for  which  the  Moorish  horsemen 
are  renowned  ;  passed  swiftly  between  them,  swung  himself 
down  from  his  saddle,  so  as  to  catch  up  his  lance,  then,  lightly 
replacing  himself,  turned  to  renew  the  combat. 


44 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


Seeing  him  thug  fresh  for  the  encounter,  as  if  just  issued 
from  his  tent,  one  of  the  cavaliers  put  his  lips  to  his  horn,  and 
blew  a  blast,  that  soon  brought  the  Alcayde  and  his  four  com- 
panions to  the  spot. 

The  valiant  Narvaez,  seeing  three  of  his  cavaliers  extended 
on  the  earth,  and  two  others  hotly  engaged  with  the  Moor, 
was  struck  with  admiration,  and  coveted  a  contest  with  so  ac- 
complished a  warrior.  Interfering  in  the  fight,  he  called  upon 
his  followers  to  desist,  and  addressing  the  Moor,  with  courteous 
words,  invited  him  to  a  more  equal  combat.  The  latter  readily 
accepted  the  challenge.  For  some  time,  their  contest  was  fierce 
and  doubtful,  and  the  Alcayde  had  need  of  all  his  skill  and 
strength  to  ward  off  the  blows  of  his  antagonist.  The  Moor, 
however,  was  exhausted  by  previous  fij^hting,  and  by  loss  of 
blood.  He  no  longer  sat  his  horse  firmly,  nor  managed  him 
with  his  wonted  skill.  Collecting  all  his  strength  for  a  last 
assault,  he  rose  in  his  stirrups,  and  made  a  violent  thrust  witli 
his  lance ;  the  Alcayde  received  it  upon  his  shield,  and  at  the 
same  time  wounded  the  Moor  in  the  right  arm  ;  then  closing,  in 
the  shock,  he  grasped  him  in  his  arms,  dragged  him  from  his 
saddle,  and  fell  with  him  to  the  earth :  when  putting  his  knee 
upon  his  breast,  and  his  dagger  to  his  throat,  "  Cavalier,"  ex- 
claimed he,  "  render  thyself  my  prisoner,  for  thy  life  is  in  my 
hands!" 

"Kill  me,  rather,"  replied  the  Moor,  "for  death  would  be 
less  grievous  than  loss  of  lil)erty." 

The  Alcayde,  l.owever,  with  the  clemency  of  the  truly  brave, 
assisted  the  Moor  to  rise,  ministered  to  his  wounds  with  his  own 
hands,  and  had  him  convoyed  with  great  care  to  the  castle  of 
AUora.  His  wounds  were  slight,  and  in  a  few  days  were  nearly 
cured ;  but  tlie  deepest  wound  had  been  inflicted  on  his  spirit. 
He  was  constantly  buried  in  a  profound  melancholy. 

The  Alcayde,  who  had  conceived  a  great  regard  for  him, 
treated  him  more  as  a  friend  than  a  captive,  and  tried  in  every 
way  to  cheer  him,  but  in  vain  ;  he  was  always  sad  and  moody, 
and,  when  on  the  battlements  of  the  castle,  would  keep  his  eyes 
turned  to  the  south,  witli  a  fixed  and  wistful  gaze. 

"  How  is  this? "  exclaimed  the  Alcayde,  reproachfully,  "  that 
you,  who  were  so  hardy  and  fearless  in  the  field,  should  lose  all 
spirit  in  prison  ?  If  any  secret  grief  preys  on  your  heart,  con- 
fide it  to  me,  as  to  a  friend,  and  I  promise  you,  on  the  faith  of  a 
cavalier,  tliat  yon  shall  have  no  cause  to  repent  the  disclosure." 

The  Moorish  knight  kissed  the  liand  of  the  Alcayde.  "  Noble 
cavalier,"  said  he,  "  that  I  am  cast  down  in  spirit,  is  not  from 


I  [■ 


•■    t 


i/  I 


E8. 

just  issued 
J  horn,  and 
four  com- 

8  extended 

the  Moor, 

fvith  so  ac- 

alled  upon 

1  courteous 

tter  readily 

t  was  fierce 

skill  and 

The  Moor, 

by  loss  of 

inaged  him 

I  for  a  last 

thrust  with 

and  at  the 

closing,  in 

in  from  his 

ig  his  knee 

I'alier,"  ex- 

fe  is  in  my 

h  would  be 

truly  brave, 
irith  his  own 
le  castle  of 
were  nearly 
n  his  spirit. 

rd  for  him, 
ied  in  every 
vnd  moody, 
2ep  his  eyes 

fully,  "  that 
)uld  lose  all 
heart,  con- 
le  faith  of  a 
iclosure." 
•.  "  Noble 
is  not  from 


THE  ABENCERRAGE. 


45 


my  wounds,  which  are  slight,  nor  from  my  captivity,  for  youi 
kindness  has  robbed  it  of  all  <rloom  ;  nor  from  my  defeat,  for  to 
be  conquered  by  so  accomplished  and  renowned  a  cavalier,  is 
no  disgrace.  But  to  explain  to  you  the  cause  of  my  grief,  it  is 
necessary  to  give  you  some  particulars  of  my  story ;  and  this  I 
am  moved  to  do,  by  the  great  sympathy  you  have  manifested 
toward  me,  and  the  magnanimity  that  shines  through  all  your 
actions." 

"  Know,  then,  that  my  name  is  Abendaraez,  and  that  I  am  of 
the  noble  but  unfortunate  line  of  the  Abencerrages  of  Granada. 
You  have  doubtless  heard  of  the  destruction  that  fell  upon  our 
race.  Charged  with  treasonable  designs,  of  which  they  were 
entirely  innocent,  many  of  them  were  beheaded,  the  rest  ban- 
ished ;  so  that  not  an  Abencerrage  was  permitted  to  remain  in 
Granada,  excepting  my  father  and  my  uncle,  whose  innocence 
was  proved,  even  to  the  satisfaction  of  their  persecutors.  It 
was  decreed,  however,  that,  should  they  have  children,  the  sons 
should  be  educated  at  a  distance  from  Granada,  and  the  daugh* 
ters  should  be  married  out  of  the  kingdom. 

"  Conformably  to  this  decree,  I  was  sent,  while  yet  an  infant, 
to  be  reared  in  the  fortress  of  Cartaraa,  the  worthy  Alcayde  of 
which  was  an  ancient  friend  of  ray  father.  He  had  no  children, 
and  received  me  into  his  family  as  his  own  child,  treating  me 
witli  the  kindness  and  affection  of  a  father ;  and  I  grew  up  in 
the  belief  that  he  really  was  such.  A  few  years  afterward,  his 
wife  gave  birth  to  a  daughter,  but  his  tenderness  toward  me  con- 
tinued undiminished.  I  thus  grew  up  with  Xarisa,  for  so  the 
infant  daughter  of  the  Alcayde  was  called,  as  her  own  brother, 
and  thought  the  growing  passin  which  I  felt  for  her,  was  mere 
fraternal  affection.  I  beheld  her  charms  unfolding,  as  it  were, 
leaf  by  leaf,  like  the  morning  rose,  each  moment  disclosing 
fresh  beauty  and  sweetness. 

"At  this  period,  I  overheard  a  conversation  between  the 
Alcayde  and  his  confidential  domestic,  and  found  myself  to  be 
the  subject.  '  It  is  time,'  said  he,  '  to  apprise  him  of  his  parent- 
age, that  he  may  adopt  a  career  in  life.  I  have  deferred  the 
communication  as  long  as  possible,  through  reluctance  to  inform 
him  that  he  is  of  a  proscribed  and  an  unlucky  race.* 

"This  intelligence  would  have  overwhelmed  me  at  an  earlier 
period,  but  the  intimation  that  Xarisa  was  not  my  sister,  oper- 
ated like  magic,  and  in  an  instant  transformed  my  brotherly 
affection  into  .irdent  love. 

"  I  sought  Xarisa,  to  impart  to  her  the  secret  I  had  learned. 
1  found  her  in  the  garden,  in  a  twwer  of  jessamines,  arranging 


M 


'.    il 


■I  t , 


46 


WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


]>■■ ! 


g,.t!      1 


her  beautiful  hair  by  the  mirror  of  a  crystal  fountain.  The 
radiance  of  her  beauty  dazzled  rae.  I  ran  to  her  with  open 
arms,  and  she  received  me  with  a  sister's  embraces.  When  we 
had  seated  ourselves  beside  the  fountain,  she  began  to  upbraid 
me  for  leaving  her  so  long  alone. 

"  In  reply,  I  informed  her  of  the  conversation  I  had  over- 
heard. The  recital  shocked  and  distressed  her.  '  Alas  ! '  cried 
she,  '  then  is  our  happiness  at  an  end  ! ' 

"  '  How  ! '  exclaimed  I ;  '  wilt  thou  cease  to  love  me,  because 
I  am  not  thy  brother  ? ' ' 

"  '  Not  so,'  replied  she  ;  '  but  do  you  not  know  that  when  it  is 
once  known  we  are  not  brother  and  sister,  we  can  no  longer  be 
permitted  to  be  thus  always  together?  " 

"  In  fact,  from  that  moment  our  intercourse  took  a  new  char- 
acter. We  met  often  at  the  fountain  among  the  jessamines, 
but  Xarisa  no  longer  advanced  with  open  arms  to  meet  ine. 
She  became  reserved  and  silent,  and  would  blush,  and  cast 
down  her  eyes,  when  I  seated  myself  beside  her.  My  heart 
became  a  prey  to  the  thousand  doubts  and  fears  that  ever 
attend  upon  true  love.  I  was  restless  and  uneasy,  and  looked 
back  with  regret  to  the  unreserved  intercourse  that  had  existed 
between  us,  when  we  supposed  ourselves  brother  and  sister; 
yet  I  would  not  have  had  the  relationship  true,  for  the  world. 

"  While  matters  were  in  this  state  between  us,  an  order  came 
from  the  King  of  Granada  for  the  Alcayde  to  take  command  of 
the  fortress  of  Coyn,  which  lies  directly  on  the  Christian  fron- 
tier. He  prepared  to  remove,  with  all  his  family,  but  signified 
that  I  should  remain  at  Cartama.  I  exclaimed  against  the 
separation,  and  declared  that  I  could  not  be  parted  from  Xarisa. 
'That  is  the  very  cause,'  said  he,  'why  I  leave  thee  behind. 
It  is  time,  Abendaraez,  that  thou  shouldst  know  the  secret  of 
thy  birth ;  that  thou  art  no  son  of  mine,  neither  is  Xarisa  thy 
sister.'  '  I  know  it  all,'  exclaimed  I,  '  and  I  love  her  with  ten- 
fold the  affection  of  a  brother.  You  have  brought  us  up  to- 
gether ;  you  have  made  us  necessary  to  each  other's  happiness ; 
our  hearts  have  intwined  themselves  with  our  growth ;  do  not 
now  tear  them  asunder.  Fill  up  the  measure  of  your  kindness ; 
be  indeed  a  father  to  me,  by  giving  me  Xarisa  for  my  wife.' 

"  The  brow  of  the  Alcayde  darkened  as  I  spoke.  '  Have  I 
then  been  deceived  ?  ' '  said  he.  '  Have  those  nurtured  in  ray 
very  bosom  been  conspiring  against  me?  Is  this  your  return 
for  my  paternal  tenderness  ?  —  to  beguile  the  affections  of  my 
child,  and  teach  her  to  deceive  her  father?  It  was  cause  enough 
to  refuse  thee  the  hand  of  my  daughter,  that  thou  wert  of  a 


tain.    The 

with  open 

When  we 

to  upbraid 

had  over- 
las  ! '  cried 

ne,  because 

t  when  it  is 
3  longer  be 

a  new  chur- 

jessauiines, 

)  meet  me. 

1,  and  cast 

My  heart 

i   that  ever 

and  looked 

had  existed 

and  sister; 

he  world. 

order  came 

ommand  of 

•istian  fron- 

>ut  signified 

against  the 

rom  Xarisa. 

bee  behind. 

ae  secret  of 

Xarisa  thy 

er  with  ten- 

t  us  up  to- 

happiness ; 

^th  ;  do  not 

r  kindness ; 

ly  wife.' 

'  Have  1 
ured  in  ray 
your  return 
tions  of  my 
luse  enough 
I  wert  of  a 


THE  ABENCERHAOE. 


47 


proscribed  race,  who  can  never  approach  the  walls  of  Granada ; 
this,  however,  I  might  have  passed  over ;  but  never  will  I  give 
my  daughter  to  a  man  who  has  endeavored  to  win  her  from  me 
by  deception.' 

"  All  my  attempts  to  vindicate  myself  and  Xarisa  were  un- 
availing. I  retired  in  anguisli  from  his  presence,  and  seeking 
Ivarisa,  told  her  of  this  blow,  which  was  worse  than  death  to 
me.  'Xarisa,'  said  I,  'we  part  forever!  I  shall  never  see 
thee  more !  Thy  father  will  guard  thee  rigidly.  Thy  beauty 
and  his  wealth  will  soon  attract  some  happier  rival,  and  I  shall 
be  forgotten  ! ' 

"  Xarisa  reproached  me  with  my  want  of  faith,  and  promised 
me  eternal  constancy.  I  still  doubted  and  desponded,  until, 
moved  by  my  anguish  and  despair,  she  agreed  to  a  secret 
union.  Our  espousals  made,  we  parted,  witha  prom'se  on  her 
part  to  send  me  word  from  Coyn,  should  her  father  absent  him- 
self from  the  fortress.  The  very  day  after  our  secret  nuptials, 
I  l)eheld  the  whole  train  of  the  Alcayde  depart  from  Cartama, 
nor  would  he  admit  me  to  his  presence,  or  permit  me  to  bid 
farewell  to  Xarisa.  I  remained  at  Cartama,  somewhat  pacified 
in  spirit  by  tliis  secret  bond  of  union ;  but  every  thing  around 
me  fed  my  passion,  and  reminded  me  of  Xarisa.  I  saw  the 
windows  at  which  I  had  so  often  beheld  her.  I  wandered 
tlirough  the  apartment  she  had  inhabited ;  the  chamber  in 
which  she  had  slept.  I  visited  the  bower  of  jessamines,  and 
lingered  beside  the  fountain  in  which  she  had  delighted.  Every 
tiling  recalled  her  to  my  imagination,  and  filled  my  heart  with 
tender  melancholy. 

"At  length,  a  confidential  servant  brought  me  word,  thai,  her 
father  was  to  depart  that  day  for  Granada,  on  a  short  absence, 
inviting  me  to  hasten  to  Coyn,  describing  a  secret  portf.l  at 
which  1  should  apply,  and  the  signal  by  which  I  v/ould  obtain 
admittance. 

''If  ever  you  have  loved,  most  valiant  Alcayde,  you  may 
judge  of  the  transport  of  my  bosom.  That  very  night  I  arrayed 
myself  in  my  most  gallant  attire,  to  pay  due  honor  to  my  bride ; 
and  arming  myself  against  any  casual  attack,  issued  forth  pri- 
vately from  Cartama.  You  know  the  rest,  and  by  what  sad 
fortune  of  war  I  found  myself,  instead  of  a  happy  bridegroom, 
in  the  nuptial  bower  of  Coyn,  vanquished,  wounded,  and  a 
prisoner,  within  the  walls  of  Allora.  The  term  of  absence  of 
the  father  of  Xarisa  is  nearly  expired.  Within  three  days  he 
will  return  to  Coyn,  and  our  meeting  will  no  longer  be  possible. 
Judge,  then,  whether  1  grieve  without  cause,  and  whether  1 


II 


'M 


I! 


ii^    !) 


iu 


48 


WOLFEBT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


n 


■fv  ,. 


may  not  well  be  excused  for  showing  impatience  under  confine- 
raent." 

Don  Rodrigo  de  Narvaez  was  greatly  moved  by  this  recital ; 
for,  though  more  used  to  rugged  war,  than  scenes  of  amorous 
softness,  he  was  of  a  kind  and  generous  nature. 

"  Abenderaez,"  said  he,  "I  did  not  seek  thy  confidence  to 
gratify  an  idle  curiosity.  It  grieves  me  much  that  the  good  for- 
tune which  delivered  thee  into  my  hands,  should  have  marred 
so  fair  an  enterprise.  Give  me  thy  faith,  as  a  true  knight,  to 
return  prisoner  to  ray  castle,  within  three  days,  and  I  will  grant 
thee  permission  to  accomplish  thy  nuptials." 

The  Abencerrage  would  have  thrown  himself  at  his  feet,  to 
pour  out  protestations  of  eternal  gratitude,  but  the  Alcayde 
prevented  him.  Calling  in  his  cavaliers,  he  took  the  Abencer- 
rage by  the  right  hand,  in  their  presence,  exclaiming  solemnly, 
"  You  promise,  on  the  faith  of  a  cavalier,  to  return  to  my  castle 
of  Allora  within  three  days,  and  render  yourself  my  prisoner?" 
And  the  Abencerrage  said,  "I  promise." 

Then  said  the  Alcayde,  "Go!  and  may  good  fortune  attend 
you.  If  you  require  any  safeguard,  I  and  my  cavaliers  are 
ready  to  be  your  companions." 

The  Abencerrage  kissed  the  hand  of  the  Alcayde,  in  grateful 
acknowledgment.  "Give  me,"  said  he,  "my  own  armor, 
and  my  steed,  and  I  require  no  guard.  It  is  not  likely  that  I 
shall  again  meet  with  so  valorous  a  foe." 

The  shades  of  night  had  fallen,  when  the  tramp  of  the  dapple- 
gray  steed  sounded  over  the  drawbridge,  and  immediately 
afterward  the  light  clatter  of  hoofs  along  the  road,  bespoke  the 
fleetness  with  which  the  youthful  lover  hastened  to  hi?  bride. 
It  was  deep  night  when  the  Moor  arrived  at  the  castle  of  Coyn. 
He  silently  and  cautiously  walked  his  panting  steed  under  its 
dark  walls,  and  having  nearly  passed  round  them,  came  to  the 
portal  denoted  by  Xarisa.  He  paused  and  looked  around  to 
see  that  he  was  not  observed,  and  then  knocked  three  times 
with  the  butt  of  his  lance.  In  a  little  while  the  portal  was 
timidly  unclosed  by  the  duenna  of  Xarisa.  "Alas!  senor," 
said  she,  "  what  has  detained  you  thus  long?  Every  night  have 
I  watched  for  you ;  and  my  lady  is  sick  at  heart  with  doubt 
and  anxiety." 

The  Abencerrage  hung  his  lance,  and  shield,  and  cimeter 
against  the  wall,  and  then  followed  the  duenna,  with  silent, 
steps,  up  a  winding  stair-case,  to  the  apartment  of  Xarisa. 
Vain  would  be  tlie  attempt  to  describe  the  raj)ture3  of  that 
meeting.     Time   flew   too   swiftly,   and   the   Aljencerrage   hud 


ES. 

der  confine. 

his  recital; 
of  anaorous 

nfidence  to 
le  good  for- 
ave  marred 
i  knight,  to 
I  will  grant 

his  feet,  to 
he  Alcayde 
le  Abencer- 
g  solemnly, 
o  my  castle 
prisoner?" 

tune  attend 
ivalitrs  are 

in  grateful 
>wn  armor, 
ikely  that  I 

the  dapple- 

mmediately 

bespoke  the 

)  hi?  bride. 

le  of  Coyn. 

J  under  its 

3ame  to  the 

around  to 

three  times 

portal  was 

s!  senor," 

night  have 

with  doubt 

nd  cimeter 
with  silenj, 
of  Xarisa. 
•es  of  that 
.'rrajje   had 


THE  ABENCSBBAOE, 


49 


nearly  forgotten,  until  too  late,  his  promise  to  return  a  prisoner 
to  the  Alcayde  of  Allora.  The  recollection  of  it  came  to  him 
with  a  pang,  and  suddenly  awoke  him  from  his  dream  of  bliss. 
Xarisa  saw  his  altered  looks,  and  heard  with  alarm  his  stifled 
sighs;  but  her  countenance  brightened,  when  she  heard  the 
cause.  "  Let  not  thy  spirit  be  cast  down,*'  said  she,  throwintr 
her  white  arms  around  him.  ''  I  have  the  keys  of  my  father's 
treasures  ;  send  ransom  more  than  enough  to  satisfy  the  Chris- 
tian, and  remain  with  me." 

'*  No,"  said  Abendaraez,  "  I  have  given  my  word  to  return  in 
person,  and  like  a  true  knight,  must  fulfil  my  promise.  After 
that,  fortune  must  do  with  me  as  it  pleases." 

"  Then,"  said  Xarisa,  "  I  will  accompany  thee.  Never  shall 
you  return  a  prisoner,  and  I  remain  at  liberty." 

The  Abencerrage  was  transported  with  joy  at  this  new  proof 
of  devotion  in  his  beautiful  bride.  All  preparations  were 
speedily  made  for  their  departure.  Xarisa  mounted  behind  the 
Moor,  on  his  powerful  steed ;  they  left  the  castle  walls  before 
daybreak,  nor  did  they  pause,  until  they  arrived  at  the  gate  of 
the  castle  of  Allora,  which  was  flung  wide  to  receive  them. 

Alighting  in  the  court,  the  Abencerrage  supported  the  steps  of 
his  trembling  bride,  who  remained  closely  veiled,  into  the  pres- 
ence of  Rodrigo  de  Narvaez.  "Behold,  valiant  Alcayde!" 
said  he,  "  the  way  in  which  an  Abencerrage  keeps  his  word.  I 
promised  to  return  to  thee  a  prisoner,  but  I  deli"er  two  captives 
into  your  power.  Behold  Xarisa,  and  judge  whether  I  grieved 
without  reason,  over  the  loss  of  such  a  treasure.  Receive  us  as 
your  own,  for  I  confide  my  life  and  her  honor  to  your  hands." 

The  Alcayde  was  lost  in  admiration  of  the  beuuty  of  the  lady, 
and  the  noble  spirit  of  the  Moor.  ''I  know  not,"  said  he, 
"  which  of  you  surpasses  the  other ;  but  I  know  that  my  castle 
is  graced  and  honored  by  your  presence.  Enter  into  it,  and 
consider  it  your  own,  while  you  deign  to  reside  with  me." 

For  several  days  the  lovers  remained  at  Allora,  happy  in 
each  other's  love,  and  in  the  friendship  of  the  brave  Alcayde. 
The  latter  wrote  a  letter,  full  of  courtesy,  to  the  Moorish  king 
of  Granada,  relating  the  whole  event,  extolling  the  valor  and 
good  faith  of  the  Abencerrage,  and  craving  for  him  the  royal 
countenance. 

The  king  was  moved  by  the  story,  and  was  pleased  with  an 
opportunity  of  showing  attention  to  the  wishes  of  a  gallant  and 
chivalrous  enemy ;  for  though  he  had  often  suffered  fi'om  the 
prowess  of  Don  K(jdrigo  de  Narvaez,  he  admired  the  heroic 
character   he    had  gained   throughout   the  land.      CtJling  the 


>       !■ 


6d 


WOLFEBT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


Alcayde  of  Coyn  into  his  presence,  he  gave  liim  the  letter  to 
read.  The  Aleayde  turned  j)ale,  and  trembled  with  ra<^e,  on 
t!'e  perusal.  "  Restrain  thine  anger,"  said  the  king  ;  "  there  is 
nothing  that  the  Alcaydo  of  Allora  could  ask,  that  I  would  not 
grant,  if  in  my  ix>wer.  Go  thou  to  Allora ;  pardon  thy  children ; 
take  them  to  thy  home.  I  receive  this  Abencerrage  into  my 
favor,  and  it  will  be  my  delight  to  heap  benefits  upon  you  all." 

The  kindling  ire  of  the  Aleayde  was  suddenly  appeased.  Ho 
hastened  to  Allora;  and  folded  his  children  to  his  l)oson>,  who 
would  have  fallen  at  his  feet.  The  gallant  llcxlrigo  de  Xar- 
vaez  gave  lil)erty  to  his  prisoner  without  ransom,  deniaiidini^ 
merely  a  promise  of  his  friendship.  He  accompanied  the  yoiifii- 
ful  couple  and  their  father  to  Coyn,  where  their  nuptials  wore 
celebrated  with  great  rejoicings.  When  the  festivities  vcro 
over,  Don  Rodrigode  Narvaez  returned  to  his  fortress  of  Allora. 

After  his  departure,  the  Aleayde  of  Coyn  addressed  liis 
children:  "To  your  hands,"  said  he,  "I  confide  the  (lis[)()si- 
tion  of  my  wealth.  One  of  the  first  things  I  charge  you,  is  not 
to  forget  the  ransom  you  owe  to  the  Aleayde  of  Allora.  His 
DMignanimity  you  can  never  repay,  but  you  can  prevent  it  from 
wronging  him  of  his  just  dues.  Give  him,  moreover,  yom- 
entir'3  friendship,  for  he  merits  it  fully,  though  of  a  dilTeront 
faith." 

The  Al)encerrage  thanked  him  for  his  generous  proposition, 
which  so  truly  accorded  with  his  own  wishes.  He  took  a  lai^te 
sum  of  gold,  and  enclosed  it  in  a  rich  oofifer ;  and,  on  his  own 
part,  sent  six  l)eautiful  horses,  superbly  caparisoned  ;  with  six 
shields  and  lances,  mounted  and  embossed  with  gold.  The 
beautiful  Xarisa,  at  the  same  time,  wrote  a  letter  to  tlie 
Aleayde,  filled  with  expressions  of  gratitude  and  friendship, 
and  sent  him  a  l)ox  of  fragrant  cypress-wood,  containing  linen, 
of  the  finest  quality,  for  his  person.  The  valiant  Alcaytle  dis- 
posed of  the  present  in  a  characteristic  manner.  The  horses 
and  armor  he  shared  among  the  cavaliers  who  had  accompanied 
him  on  the  night  of  the  skirmish.  The  lx)x  of  cypress-wood 
and  its  contents  he  retained,  for  the  sake  of  the  beautiful 
Xarisa :  and  sent  her,  by  the  hands  of  a  messenger,  the  sum  of 
gold  paid  as  a  ransom,  entreating  her  to  receive  it  as  a  wedding 
present.  This  courtesy  and  u)agnanimity  raised  -he  character 
td  the  Aleayde  Rodrigo  de  Xarvaez  still  higher  in  the  estima- 
tion of  the  Moors,  who  extolled  him  as  a  perfect  mirror  of  cliiv- 
alric  virtue  ;  and  from  that  time  forward,  there  was  a  coutiuuai 
exchimge  of  goHxl  offices  between  them. 


i 


2«4 


nss. 

tln'  letter  to 
vith  r.ajre,  „„ 
>K;  "there  is 
t  I  would  not 
thy  ehil(h-en ; 
riige  into  my 
>ou  yoii  all." 
)pease(l.     H^ 

3  1k)SOI1),  who 

rigo  tie  Nar- 

1,  (leniandino 
ietl  the  you'.i- 

nuptials  were 
stivitics    vere 

ss  of  Allora. 
wldreased  his 
L'  the  disposi- 
ge  you,  is  not 

AUoni.  His 
revent  it  from 
Dreover,  your 
3f  a  different 

J  proposition, 
b  took  11  lurjfo 
d,  on  his  own 
led  ;  with  six 
»  gold,  'riu; 
letter  to  tlio 
d  friendship, 
tiiining  linen, 
Alcayde  dis- 

The  horses 
accompanied 
cypress-wood 
Am  beautiful 
r,  the  sum  of 
as  a  weddinp; 
he  character 

the  estinui- 
irror  of  chiv- 
8  a  continual 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND.  51 


THE   ENCHANTED  ISLAND. 

BY   THE    AUTHOR   OF   THE   SKETCH-BOOK. 

Break,  rhanlslc,  from  thy  cave  ot  cloud, 

And  wave  ihy  purple  wlngB. 
Now  all  thy  flgurcH  arc  allrwed. 

And  varloiiH  shnpett  of  chlngg. 
Create  of  airy  forrriN  a  Rtream  ■ 

It  must  have  blood  and  iiiii    hi  of  phlegm; 
And  though  It  he  a  walking  ilream. 

Yet  let  It  like  an  odor  rlHO 
To  all  the  HeimeH  here, 

And  fall  like  ulcep  upon  their  eyed. 
Or  uiuHJc  on  their  ear.  —  Ben  Jonbon. 

"There  arc  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  than  are 
dreamed  of  in  our  philosophy,"  and  among  these  may  be 
placed  that  marvel  and  mystery  of  the  seas,  the  island  of  St. 
iiiandan.  Every  school-l)oy  can  enumerate  and  call  by  name 
the  Canaries,  the  Fortunate  Islands  of  the  ancients ;  which, 
according  to  some  ingenious  speculative  minds,  are  mere  wrecks 
and  remnants  of  the  vast  island  of  Atalantis,  mentioned  by 
riato,  as  having  been  swallowed  up  by  the  ocean.  Whoever 
has  read  the  history  of  those  isles,  will  remember  the  wonders 
told  of  another  island,  still  more  beautiful,  seen  occasionally 
from  their  shores,  stretching  away  in  the  clear  bright  west, 
with  long  shadowy  promontories,  and  high,  sun-gilt  peaks. 
Numerous  expeditions,  both  in  ancient  and  modern  days,  have 
launched  fortli  from  the  Canaries  in  quest  of  that  island  ;  but, 
on  their  approach,  mountain  and  promontory  have  gradually 
faded  away,  until  nothing  has  remained  but  the  blue  sky  above, 
ind  the  deep  blue  water  l)elow.  Hence  it  was  termed  by  the 
leograpbers  of  old,  Aprositus,  or  the  Inaccessible;  while  mod- 
;'rn  navigators  have  called  its  very  existence  in  question,  pro- 
nouncing it  a  mere  optical  illusion,  like  the  Fata  Morgana  of  the 
Straits  of  Messina ;  or  classing  it  with  those  unsubstantial  re- 
gions known  to  mariners  as  Cai)e  Flyaway,  and  the  Coast  of 
Cloud  Land. 

Let  not,  however,  the  doubts  of  the  worldly-wise  sceptics  of 
modern  days  rob  us  of  all  the  glorious  realms  owned  by  happy 
ciedulity  in  days  of  yore.  lie  assured,  O  reader  of  easy  faith  I 
—  lliou  for  whom  I  delight  to  labor  —  \^e  assured,  that  such  an 
island  d(  es  actually  exist,  and  has,  from  time  to  time,  been 


fi 


f: 


:        .1 


v<«BXniu<i»  ^  AimM 


^*»  *-«•   -  t   - 


62 


WOLFEBT'S  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


revealed  to  the  gaze,  and  trodden  by  the  feet,  of  favored  mor- 
tals. Nay,  though  doubted  by  historians  and  philosophers,  itg 
existence  is  fully  attested  by  the  poets,  who,  being  an  inspired 
race,  and  gifted  with  a  kind  of  second  sight,  can  see  into  tlie 
mysteries  of  nature,  hidden  from  the  eyes  of  ordinary  mortals. 
To  this  gifted  race  it  has  ever  been  a  region  of  fancy  and 
romance,  teeming  with  all  kinds  of  wonders.  Here  once 
bloomed,  and  perhaps  still  blooms,  the  famous  garden  of  the 
Hesperides,  v/Uh  its  golden  fruit.  Here,  too,  was  the  enchanted 
garden  of  Armida,  in  which  that  sorceress  held  the  Christia" 
paladin,  Rinaldo,  in  delicious  but  inglorious  thraldom  ;  as  is  set 
forth  in  the  immortal  lay  of  Tasso.  It  was  on  this  island,  also, 
that  Sycorax,  the  witch,  held  sway,  when  the  good  Prospero, 
and  his  infant  daughter  Miranda,  were  wafted  to  its  shores. 
The  isle  was  then 

"  full  of  noiecB, 

Sounds,  and  sweet  airs,  that  give  delight,  and  hurt  not." 


i    y 


It  '; 


Who  does  not  know  the  tale,  as  told  in  the  magic  pawe  of 
Shakspeare  ? 

In  fact,  the  island  appears  to  have  been,  at  different  times, 
under  the  sway  of  different  powers,  genii  of  earth,  and  air,  and 
ocean ;  who  made  it  their  shadowy  abode ;  or  rather,  it  is  the 
retiring  place  of  old  worn-out  deities  and  dynasties,  that  once 
ruled  the  poetic  world,  but  are  now  nearly  shorn  of  all  their 
attributes.  Here  Neptune  and  An  phitrite  hold  a  diminished 
court,  like  sovereigns  in  exile.  Their  ocean-chariot  lies  bottom 
upward,  in  a  cave  of  the  island,  almost  a  perfect  wreck,  while 
their  pursy  Tritons  and  haggard  Nereids  bask  listlessly,  like 
seals  about  the  rocks.  Sometimes  they  assume  a  shadow  of 
their  ancient  pomp,  and  glide  in  state  about  the  glassy  sea ; 
while  the  crew  of  some  tall  Indiaman,  that  lies  becalmed  with 
flapping  sails,  hear  with  astonishment  the  mellow  note  of  the 
Triton's  shell  swelling  upoA  die  ear,  as  the  invisible  pageant 
sweeps  by.  Sometimes  the  quondam  monarch  of  the  ocean  is 
permitted  to  make  himself  visible  to  mortal  eyes,  visiting  the 
ships  that  cross  the  line,  to  exact  a  tribute  from  new-comers ; 
the  only  remnant  of  his  ancient  rule,  and  that,  alas  !  performed 
with  tattered  state,  and  tarnished  splendor. 

On  the  shores  of  this  wondrous  island,  the  mighty  kraken 
heaves  his  bulk,  and  wallows  many  a  rood ;  here,  too,  the  sea- 
serpent  lies  coiled  up,  during  the  intervals  of  his  much-con- 
tested revelations  to  the  eyes  of  true-believe'*3  ;  and  here,  it  is 
said,  even  in  the  Flying  Dutchmuu  Cuds  a  port,  and  casts  his 


I 


UE8. 

favored  mor- 
ilosophers,  its 
;  an  inspired 
see  into  the 
nary  mortals, 
f  fancy  and 
Here  once 
arden  of  the 
he  enchanted 
the  Christia'- 
am  ;  as  is  set 
i  island,  also, 
od  Prospero, 
-o  its  shores. 


igic  pawe  of 

Terent  times, 
and  air,  and 
her,  it  is  the 
es,  that  once 
1  of  all  their 
a  diminished 
»t  lies  bottom 
wreck,  while 
istlessly,  like 
a.  shadow  of 
!  glassy  sea ; 
ecalmed  with 
note  of  the 
lible  pageant 
the  ocean  is 
,  visiting  the 
new-comers ; 
1 !  performed 

ghty  kraken 
too,  the  sea- 
s  mueh-con- 
d  here,  it  is 
ud  casts  his 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND. 


53 


anchor,  and  furls  his  shadowy  sail,  and  takes  i\  short  repose 
irom  his  eternal  wanderings. 

Here  all  the  treasures  lost  in  the  deep  are  safely  garnered. 
The  caverns  of  the  shores  are  piled  with  golden  ingots,  boxes 
of  pearls,  rich  bales  of  oriental  silks ;  and  their  deep  recesses 
sparkle  with  diamonds,  or  flame  with  carbuncles.  Here,  in 
deep  bays  and  harbors,  lies  many  a  spell-bound  ship,  long 
given  up  as  lost  by  the  ruined  merchant.  Fere,  too,  its  crew, 
long  bewailed  as  swallowed  up  in  ocean,  lie  sleeping  in  mossy 
grottos,  from  age  to  age,  or  wander  about  enchanted  shores 
and  groves,  in  pleasing  oblivion  of  all  things. 

Such  are  some  of  the  marvels  related  of  this  island,  and 
which  may  serve  to  throw  some  light  on  the  following  legend, 
of  unquestionable  truth,  which  I  recommend  to  the  entire  belief 
of  the  reader. 


THE  ADELANTADO  OF  THE  SEVEN  CITIES. 

A   LEGEND   OF   ST.    BRANDAN. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  fifteenth  century,  when  Prince 
Henry  of  Portugal,  of  worthy  memory,  was  pushing  the  career 
of  discovery  along  the  western  coast  of  Africa,  and  the  world 
was  resounding  with  reports  of  golden  regions  on  the  main 
laud,  and  new-found  islands  in  the  ocean,  there  arrived  at 
Lisbon  an  old  bewildered  pilot  of  the  seas,  who  had  been 
driven  by  tempests,  he  knew  not  whither;  and  who  raved 
about  an  island  far  in  the  deep,  on  which  he  had  landed,  and 
which  he  had  found  peopled  with  Christiauo,  and  adorned  with 
noble  cities. 

The  inhabitants,  he  said,  gathered  round,  and  regarded  him 
with  surprise,  having  never  before  been  visited  by  a  ship. 
They  told  him  they  were  descendants  of  a  band  of  Christians, 
who  fled  from  Si)ain  when  that  country  was  conquered  by  the 
Moslems.  They  were  curious  about  the  state  of  their  father- 
laud,  and  grieved  to  hear  that  the  Moslems  still  held  posses- 
bion  of  the  kingdom  of  Granada.  They  would  have  taken  the 
old  navigator  to  church,  to  convince  him  of  their  orthodoxy ; 
but,  either  tlirougli  lack  of  devotion,  or  lack  of  faith  in  their 
words,  he  declined  their  invitation,  and  preferred  to  return  on 
board  of  his  ship.  He  was  properly  punished.  A  furious 
storm  arose,  drove  him  from  lii»  auehorage.  hurried  him  out 
to  sea,  and  he  saw  no  more  ul'  the  unknown  island. 


J 


1  -ii 
il 


"H^  1 


'.Ml 


AV 


I    'it 


k.H«.*.,^«'*i-«''«M'«'#<«ft  -k  • 


54 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


' 


J  ■! 


This  strange  story  caused  great  marvel  in  Lisbon  and  else- 
where. Those  versed  in  history,  remembered  to  have  read,  in 
an  ancient  chronicle,  that,  at  the  time  of  the  conquest  of  Spain, 
in  the  eighth  century,  v  ■<,  the  blessed  cross  was  cast  down, 
and  the  crescent  erected  in  its  place,  and  when  Christian 
churches  were  turned  into  Moslem  mosques,  seven  bishops,  at 
the  head  of  seven  bands  of  pious  exiles,  had  fled  from  the 
peninsula,  and  embarked  in  quest  of  some  ocean  island,  or  dis- 
tant land,  where  they  might  found  seven  Christian  cities,  and 
enjoy  their  faith  unmolested. 

The  fate  of  these  pious  saints  errant  had  hitherto  remained 
a  mystery,  and  their  story  had  faded  from  memory ;  the  reiort 
of  the  old  tempest-tossed  pilot,  however,  revived  this  louj^-for- 
gotten  theme  ;  and  it  was  determined  by  the  pious  and  enthusi- 
astic, that  the  island  thus  accidentally  discovered,  was  tlie 
identical  place  of  refuge,  whither  the  wandering  bishops  had 
been  guided  by  a  protecting  Providence,  and  where  they  bad 
folded  their  flocks. 

This  most  excitable  of  worlds  has  always  some  darling  ob- 
ject of  chimerical  enterprise  :  the  "  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities  " 
now  awakened  as  much  interest  and  longing  among  zealous 
Christians,  as  has  the  renowned  city  of  Timbuctoo  among 
adventurous  travellers,  or  the  North-east  Passage  among  hardly 
navigators  ;  and  it  was  a  frequent  prayer  of  tlie  devout,  that 
these  scattered  and  lost  {wrtious  of  the  Christian  family  might 
be  discovered,  and  reunited  to  the  great  body  of  Christen- 
dom. 

No  one,  however,  entered  into  the  matter  with  half  the  zeal 
of  Don  Fernando  de  Ulmo,  a  young  cavalier  of  high  standing 
in  the  Portuguese  court,  and  of  most  sanguine  and  romantic 
tempeiament.  He  had  recently  come  to  his  estate,  and  iiad 
run  the  round  of  all  kinds  of  pleasures  and  excitements,  when 
this  new  theme  of  popular  talk  and  wonder  i)resented  itself. 
The  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities  l)ecame  now  the  constant  sul>- 
ject  of  his  thoughts  l)y  day  and  his  dreams  liy  night ;  it  even 
rivalled  his  passion  for  a  l)eautiful  girl,  one  of  the  greatest 
belles  of  Lisbon,  to  whom  he  was  betrothed.  At  length  his 
imagination  became  so  inflamed  on  the  subject,  that  he  deter- 
mined to  fit  out  an  expedition,  at  his  own  expense,  and  set 
sail  in  quest  of  this  sainted  island.  It  could  not  be  a  cruise 
of  any  great  extent ;  for  according  to  the  calculatioiu^  of  the 
tempest- tossed  pilot,  it  must  l)e  somewhere  in  the  latitude  of 
tiie  Canaries  ;  whicli  at  that  time,  when  tiie  new  world  was  as 
yet  undiscovered,  formed  the  frontier  of  ocean  enterprise.    Dm 


lES. 

m  and  else- 
ave  read,  in 
!st  of  Spain, 

east  down, 
n    Christian 

bishops,  at 
ed  from  the 
land,  or  dis- 
II  cities,  and 

■to  remained 
the  report 
his  lon>^-for- 
and  enthusi- 
di  was  the 
bishops  had 
ire  they  had 

darling  ob- 
L'ven  Cities" 
long  zealous 
ictoo  among 
inong  hardly 
devout,  that 
family  might 
of   Christen- 

tuilf  the  zeal 
igh  standing 
md  romantic 
te,  anil  had 
ments,  when 
seated  itself, 
onstant  sub- 
ght ;  it  even 
the  greatest 
-t  length  his 
lat  he  deter- 
use,  and  set 
be  a  cruise 
itiona  of  the 
3  latitude  of 
?orld  was  as 
rprise.    Duu 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND. 


56 


Fernando  applied  to  the  crown  for  countenance  and  protection. 
As  he  was  a  favorite  at  court,  the  usual  patronage  was  readily 
extended  to  him  ;  that  is  to  say,  he  received  a  commission 
from  the  king,  Don  loam  II.,  constituting  him  Adelantado,  or 
military  governor,  of  any  country  he  might  discover,  with  the 
single  proviso,  that  he  should  bear  all  the  expenses  of  the  dis- 
covery and  pay  a  tenth  of  the  profits  to  the  crown. 

Don  Fernando  now  set  to  work  in  the  true  spirit  of  a  pro- 
jector. He  sold  acre  after  acre  of  solid  land,  and  invested  the 
proceeds  in  ships,  guns,  ammunition,  and  sea-stores.  Even  his 
old  family  mansion  in  Lisbon  was  mortgaged  without  scruple, 
for  he  looked  forward  to  a  palace  in  one  of  the  Seven  Cities  of 
which  he  was  to  be  Adelantado.  This  was  the  age  of  nautical 
romance,  when  the  thoughts  of  all  speculative  dreamers  were 
turned  to  the  ocean.  The  scheme  of  Don  Fernando,  therefore, 
drew  adventurers  of  every  kind.  The  merchant  promised  him- 
self new  marts  of  opulent  traffic ;  the  soldier  hoped  to  sack  and 
plunder  some  one  or  other  of  those  Seven  Cities  ;  even  the  fat 
monk  shook  off  the  sleep  and  sloth  of  the  cloister,  to  join  in  a 
crusade  which  promised  such  increase  to  the  possessions  of  the 
church. 

One  person  alone  regarded  the  whole  project  with  sovereign 
contempt  and  growling  hostility.  This  was  Don  Ramiro  Al- 
varez, the  father  of  the  beautiful  Serafina,  to  whom  Don  Fer- 
nando was  betrothed.  He  wnd  one  of  those  perverse,  matter- 
of-fact  old  men  who  are  prone  to  oppose  every  thing  speculative 
and  romantic.  He  had  no  faith  in  the  Island  of  the  Seven 
Cities  ;  regarded  the  projected  cruise  as  a  crack-brained  freak  ; 
looked  witli  angry  eye  and  internal  heart-burning  on  the  con- 
duct of  his  intended  son-in-law,  chaffering  away  solid  lands  for 
lands  in  the  moon,  and  scofRngly  dubbed  him  Adelantado  of 
Lubberlaud.  In  fact,  he  had  never  really  relished  the  intended 
match,  to  which  his  consent  had  been  slowly  extorted  by  the 
tears  and  entreaties  of  his  daughter.  It  is  true  he  could  have 
no  reasonable  objections  to  the  youth,  for  Don  Fernando  was 
the  very  flower  of  Portuguese  chivalry.  No  one  could  excel 
him  at  the  tilting  match,  or  the  riding  at  the  ring ;  none  was 
more  bold  and  dexterous  in  the  bull-fight ;  none  composed  more 
gallant  madrigals  in  praist  of  his  lady's  charms,  or  sang  them 
with  sweeter  tones  to  the  accompaniment  of  her  guitar;  nor 
could  any  one  handle  the  castanets  and  dance  the  bohro  with 
more  captivating  grace.  All  these  admirable  qualities  and 
endowments,  however,  though  they  had  been  sufficient  to  win 
the  heart  of  Serafina,  were  nothing  in  the  eyes  of  her  unreason- 


:i 

f 

■' } 

*> 

k 

E- 1 

^■f^  1 

■   ;!■  1 

MK 

56 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


•   i  i 


■f 


able  father.  O  Cupid,  god  of  Love !  why  will  fathers  always 
be  80  unreasonable ! 

The  engagement  to  Serafina  had  threatened  at  first  to  throw 
an  obstacle  in  the  way  of  the  expedition  of  Don  Fernando,  and 
for  a  time  perplexed  liim  in  the  extreme.  He  was  passionately 
attached  to  the  young  lady ;  but  he  was  also  passionately  bent 
on  this  romantic  enterprise.  How  should  he  reconcile  the  two 
passionate  inclinations  ?  A  simple  and  obvious  arrangement  at 
length  presented  itself :  marry  Serafina,  enjoy  a  portion  of  the 
honeymoon  at  ow^e.  and  defer  the  rest  until  his  return  from  tlie 
discovery  of  the  Seven  Cities ! 

He  hastened  to  make  known  this  most  excellent  arrangement 
to  Don  Ramiro,  when  the  long-smothered  wrath  of  the  old  cava- 
lier burst  forth  in  a  storm  about  his  ears.  He  reproached  him 
with  being  the  dupe  of  wandering  vagabonds  and  wild  schemers, 
and  of  squandering  all  his  real  possessions  in  pursuit  of  emi)ty 
bubbles.  Don  Fernando  was  too  sanguine  a  projector,  and  too 
young  a  man,  to  listen  tamely  to  such  language.  He  acted 
with  what  is  technically  called  "becoming  spirit."  A  higli 
quarrel  ensued  ;  Don  Ramiro  pronounced  him  a  madman,  and 
forbade  all  farther  intercourse  with  his  daughter,  until  he  should 
give  proof  of  returning  sanity  by  abandoning  this  mad-cap  en- 
terprise ;  while  Don  Fernando  flung  out  of  the  house,  more  bent 
than  ever  on  the  expedition,  from  the  idea  of  triumphing  over 
the  incredulity  of  the  graybeard  when  he  should  return  suc- 
cessful. 

Don  Ramiro  repaired  to  his  daughter's  chamber  the  moment 
the  youth  had  departed.  He  represented  to  her  the  sanguine, 
unsteady  character  of  her  lover  and  the  chimerical  nature  of 
his  schemes  ;  showed  her  the  propriety  of  suspending  all  inter- 
course with  him  until  he  should  recover  from  his  present  luil- 
lucination  ;  folded  her  to  his  bosom  with  parental  fondness, 
kissed  the  tear  that  stole  down  her  cheek,  and,  as  he  left  the 
chamlxir,  gently  locked  the  door ;  for  althougli  he  was  a  fond 
father,  and  had  a  high  opinion  of  the  sul)missive  temper  of  his 
child,  he  had  a  still  higher  opinion  of  the  conservative  virtues 
of  lock  and  key.  Whether  the  damsel  had  been  in  any  wise 
shaken  in  her  faith  as  to  the  schemes  of  her  lover,  and  the 
existence  of  the  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  by  the  sage  repre- 
rtcututions  of  her  father,  tn dition  does  not  say ;  but  it  is  certain 
that  she  became  a  firm  believer  the  inomeut  she  heard  him  turn 
the  key  in  the  lock. 

Notwithstanding  the  interdict  of  Don  Ramiro,  therefore,  and 
his  shrewd  precautions,  the  intercourse  of  the  lovers  continued, 


'ES. 

hers  always 

at  to  throw 
rnando,  and 
passionately 
)nately  bent 
ile  the  two 
mgement  at 
rtion  of  the 
irn  from  the 

irrangoment 
le  old  cava- 
oachod  him 
d  schemers, 
it  of  empty 
or,  and  too 
He  acted 
A  high 
adman,  and 
il  he  shouhl 
nad-cap  en- 
S  more  bent 
iphing  over 
return  suc- 

the  moment 
e  sanguine, 
.1  nature  of 
ig  all  inter- 
)resent  luil- 
1  fondness, 
he  left  the 
ivas  a  fond 
Tiper  of  his 
tive  virtues 
n  any  wise 
;r,  and  the 
?age  repre- 
it  is  certain 
\  him  turn 

re fore,  and 
continued, 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND. 


57 


although  clandestinely.  Don  Fernando  toiled  all  day,  hurrying 
forward  his  nautical  enterprise,  while  at  night  he  would  repair, 
beneath  the  grated  balcony  of  his  mistress,  to  carry  on  at  equal 
pace  the  no  less  interesting  enterprise  of  the  heart.  At  length 
the  preparations  for  the  exiK^dition  were  completed.  Two  gal- 
lant caravels  lay  anchored  in  the  Tagus,  ready  to  sail  with  the 
morning  dawn  ;  while  late  at  night,  by  the  pale  light  of  a  wan- 
ing moon,  Don  Fernando  sought  the  stately  mansion  of  Alvarez 
to  take  a  last  farewell  of  Serafina.  The  customary  signal  of  a 
few  low  touches  of  a  guitar  brought  her  to  the  balcony.  She 
was  sad  at  heart  and  full  of  gloomy  forebodings  ;  but  her  lover 
strove  to  impart  to  her  his  own  buoyant  hope  and  youthful  con- 
fidence. "  A  few  short  months,"  said  he,  "  and  I  shall  return 
in  triumph.  Thy  father  will  then  blush  at  his  mcredulity,  and 
will  once  more  welcome  me  to  his  house,  when  I  cross  its  thresh- 
old a  wealthy  suitor  i:xl  Adelantndo  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

The  beautiful  Serallna  shook  her  head  mournfully.  It  was 
not  on  those  points  that  slie  felt  doubt  or  dismay.  She  believed 
most  implicitly  in  the  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  and  trusted 
devoutly  in  the  success  of  the  enterprise  ;  but  she  had  heard  of 
the  inconstancy  of  the  seas,  and  the  inconstancy  of  those  who 
roam  them.  Now,  let  the  truth  be  six)ken,  Don  Fernando,  if 
he  had  any  fault  in  the  world,  it  was  that  he  was  a  little  too 
inflanima1)le  ;  that  is  to  say,  a  little  too  subject  to  take  fire  from 
the  sparkle  of  every  bright  eye :  he  had  been  somewhat  of  a 
rover  among  the  sex  on  shore,  what  might  he  not  be  on  sea? 
Might  he  not  meet  with  other  loves  in  foreign  ports?  Might  he 
not  behold  some  peerless  beauty  in  one  or  other  of  those  p<^ven 
cities,  who  might  efface  the  image  of  Serafina  from  his  thoughts? 

At  length  she  vciiturcd  lo  hint  her  doubts;  but  Don  Fernando 
spurned  at  the  very  idea.  Never  could  his  heart  be  false  ta 
Serafina  !  Never  could  another  be  captivating  in  his  eyes !  — ■■ 
never  —  never!  Repeatedly  did  he  bend  his  knee,  and  smite 
his  breast,  and  call  upon  the  silver  moon  to  witness  the  sincerity 
of  his  vows.  But  might  not  Serafina,  herself,  be  forgetful  of 
her  plighted  faith?  Might  not  some  wealthier  rival  present, 
while  he  was  tossing  on  the  sea,  and,  backed  by  the  authority 
of  her  father,  win  the  trea.sure  of  her  hand  ? 

Alas,  how  little  did  he  know  Serafina's  heart !  Ti^?  dio;"?  her 
father  should  opix)se,  the  more  would  she  be  fixed  in  her  faita. 
Though  years  should  pass  before  his  return,  he  would  find  her 
true  to  her  vows.  Even  should  the  salt  seas  swallow  him  up, 
(and  her  eyes  streamed  with  salt  tears  at  ihe  very  thought,) 


never  would  she  be  the  wife  of  another  —  never  —  never  I     She 


:>;. 


■:  : 


I  i>. 


1  ■■!■  i 


t-r-.^  »"»,^4  ■?^-^ai?»^.-t&  -^^ 


58 


WOLFERT'S  liOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


m  h 


.'i " 


raised  her  beautiful  white  arms  between  the  iron  bars  of  the 
balcony,  and  involved  the  moon  us  a  testimonial  of  her  faitii. 

Thus,  according  to  immemorial  usage,  the  lovers  parted,  with 
many  a  vow  of  eternal  constancy.  But  will  they  keep  tliose 
vows?  Perish  the  doubt  I  Have  they  not  called  the  constant 
moon  to  witness? 

With  the  morning  dawn  the  caravels  dropped  down  the  Tagiis 
and  put  to  sea.  They  steered  for  the  C^unaries,  in  those  days 
the  regions  of  nautical  romance.  Scarcely  had  they  reaciu-d 
those  latitudes,  when  a  violent  tempest  arose.  Don  Fernundo 
soon  lost  sight  of  the  accompanying  caravel,  and  was  driven  out. 
of  all  reckoning  by  the  fury  of  the  storm.  For  several  weary 
days  and  nigiits  he  was  tossed  to  and  fro,  at  the  niiTcy  of 
the  elements,  expecting  each  moment  to  he  swallowed  up.  At 
length,  one  day  toward  evening,  the  storm  suiisided  ;  the  clouds 
cleared  up,  as  though  a  veil  had  suddenly  l)een  withdrawn  from 
the  face  of  heaven,  and  the  setting  sun  hIioiic  gloriously  "ipoii 
a  fair  and  mountainouH  island,  that  seemed  close  at  hand.  Thi; 
tern  pest- tossed  mariners  rubbed  their  eyes,  and  gazed  almost 
incredulously  upon  this  land,  tliat  had  emerged  so  suddenly  from 
the  murky  gloom  ;  yet  tiiere  it  lay,  spread  out  in  lovely  huid- 
scapes  ;  enlivened  by  villages,  and  towers,  and  spires,  wliih'  ilio 
late  stormy  sea  rolled  in  peaceful  billows  to  its  shores.  A 1  tout 
a  league  from  the  sea,  on  the  banks  of  a  river,  stood  a  noiili,' 
city,  with  lofty  walls  and  towers,  and  a  protecting  oastle.  ihm 
Fernando  anchored  off  the  mouth  of  the  river,  which  ai)iwari'(| 
to  form  a  spacious  harl)or.  In  a  little  while  a  barge  wns  seen 
issuing  from  the  river.  It  was  evidently  a  barge  of  ceremony, 
for  it  was  richly  though  rpuiintly  carved  and  gilt,  and  decorated 
with  a  silken  awning  and  tluttering  streamers,  while  a  banner, 
bearing  tlio  sacred  emblem  of  th.e  cross,  floated  to  the  breeze. 
The  barge  advanced  slowly,  impelled  by  sixteen  oars,  painted 
of  a  iuight  crimson.  The  oarsmen  were  uncouth,  or  rather 
antique,  in  their  garl),  and  kept  stroke  to  the  regular  cadence  of 
an  old  Spanish  ditty,  lieneath  the  awning  sat  a  cavalier,  in  a 
rich  though  old-lashioned  doublet,  with  an  enormous  sombrero 
and  featlier. 

When  the  barge  reached  the  caravel,  the  cavalier  stepi)e(l 
on  board.  He  was  tall  and  gaunt,  with  a  long  Spanish  visage, 
and  lack-lustre  eyes,  and  an  air  of  lofty  and  somewhat  pompous 
gravity.  His  nmstaches  wer<i  curled  up  to  his  ears,  his  U-ard 
was  forked  and  precise  ;  h„'  wore  gauntlets  that  reached  to  his 
^ilbows,  and  a  Toledo  blaut  that  strutted  out  behind,  while, 
in  front,  its  huge  basket-hilt  i»:'ght  have  served  for  a  porringer. 


ES. 

bars  of  the 

er  faith. 

)jirte(l,  witli 
keep  those 
»e  constant 

the  Tasus 
those  (lavs 
le}'  reaclinl 
1  Feinandu 
(h-iven  out 
veral  weary 
e  mercy  of 
o<l  up.     At 
;  the  chjuds 
flrawn  from 
iously  'ipuu 
Kind.     The 
Lzed  ahnost 
hh'uly  from 
ovely  huid- 
s,  while  the 
es.     Ahoiit 
ood  a  noliic 
istle.      i)oii 
li  appeared 
;e  was  seen 

ceremony, 
1  (leeor.'iled 
?  a  Ijanner, 
the  breeze, 
rs,  painted 
,  or  rather 
cadence  of 
k'alier,  in  a 
s  sombrero 

er  stepped 

Ish  visaue, 
it  pompous 
,  his  iK'ard 
[!hed  to  his 
nd,  while, 
porringer. 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND. 


69 


Thrusting  out  a  long  spindle  leg,  and  taking  off  his  sombrero 
with  a  grave  and  stately  sweep,  he  saluted  Don  Fernando  by 
name,  and  welcomed  him,  in  old  Castiiian  language,  and  in  the 
style  of  old  Castiiian  courtesy. 

Don  Fernando  was  startled  at  hearing  himself  accosted  by 
name,  by  an  utter  stranger,  in  a  strange  land.  As  soon  as  he 
could  recover  from  his  surprise,  he  inquired  what  land  it  was  at 
which  he  had  arrived. 

"  The  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities  !  " 

Could  this  be  true  ?  Had  he  indeed  been  thus  tempest-driven 
upon  the  very  land  of  which  he  was  in  quest?  It  was  even  so. 
The  other  caravel,  from  which  he  had  been  separated  in  the 
storm,  had  made  a  neighboring  port  of  the  island,  and  an- 
nounced the  tidings  of  this  expedition,  which  came  to  restore 
the  country  to  the  great  community  of  Christendom.  The 
whole  island,  he  was  told,  was  given  up  to  rejoicings  on  the 
happy  event ;  and  they  only  awaited  his  arrival  to  acknowledge 
allegiance  to  th^  crown  of  Portugal,  and  hail  him  as  Adelantado 
of  the  Seven  Cities.  A  grand  fete  was  to  be  solemnized  that 
very  night  in  the  palace  of  the  Alcayde  or  governor  of  the  city ; 
who,  on  beholding  the  most  opportune  arrival  of  the  caravel, 
hail  despatched  his  grand  chamberlain,  in  his  barge  of  state,  to 
conduct  the  future  Adelantado  to  the  ceremony. 

Don  Fernando  could  scarcely  believe  but  that  this  was  all  a 
dream.  He  fixed  a  scrutinizing  gaze  upon  the  grand  chamber^ 
lain,  who,  having  delivered  his  message,  stood  in  buckram  dig- 
nity, drawn  up  to  ids  full  stature,  curling  his  whiskers,  stroking 
his  l)eard,  ami  looking  down  upon  him  with  inexprcj^iuble  lofti- 
ness through  his  lack-lustre  eyes.  There  was  no  doubting  the 
word  of  so  grave  and  ceremonious  a  hidalgo.  , 

Don  Fernando  now  arrayed  himself  in  gala  attire.  He  would 
have  launched  his  boat,  and  gone  on  Buore  with  his  own  men, 
but  he  was  informed  the  barge  of  state  was  expressly  provided 
for  his  accommodation,  and,  after  the  fete,  would  bring  him 
back  to  his  ship  ;  in  which,  on  the  following  day,  he  might  enter 
the  harbor  in  l)entting  style.  He  accordingly  stepped  into  the 
ba;  ^e,  and  took  his  seat  beneath  the  awning.  The  grand 
chamberlain  seated  himself  on  the  cushion  opposite.  The 
rowers  bent  to  their  oars,  and  renewed  their  mournful  old 
ditty,  and  the  gorgeous,  but  unwieldy  barge  moved  slowly  and 
solemnly  through  the  water. 

The  night  closed  in,  befoic  t'ley  entered  the  river.  They  swept 
along,  past  rock  and  promontory,  each  guarded  by  its  tower. 
The  sentinels  at  every  post  challenged  them  as  they  passed  by. 


1} 


fi-i 


60 


WOLFERrS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


11 


"Who  goes  there?" 

"The  Adelantado  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

"He  is  welcome.     Pass  on." 

On  entering  the  harbor,  they  rowed  close 


alons: 


an  armed 


i^ 


galley,  of  the  most  ancient  form.  Soldiers  with  cross-bows 
were  stationed  on  the  deck. 

"  Who  goes  there?  "  was  again  demanded. 

"  The  Adelantado  of  the  Seven  Citias." 

"  He  is  wercome.     Pass  on." 

They  landed  at  a  broad  flight  of  stone  steps,  leading  up,  be- 
tween two  massive  towers,  to  the  water-gate  of  the  city,  at 
which  they  knocked  for  admission.  A  sentinel,  in  an  ancient 
steel  casque,  looked  over  the  wall.     "  Who  is  there?  " 

"The  Adelantado  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

The  gate  swung  slowly  open,  grating  \i[)on  its  rusty  hinges. 
They  entered  between  two  rows  of  irou-clad  warriors,  in  bat- 
tered armor,  with  cross-bows,  battle-axes,  and  ancient  maces, 
and  with  faces  as  old-fashioned  and  rust}' as  their  armor.  They 
saluted  Don  Fernando  in  military  style,  but  with  perfect  silence, 
as  he  passed  between  their  ranks.  The  city  was  illuminated, 
~ut  in  such  manner  as  to  give  a  more  shadowy  and  solemn 
effect  to  its  old-time  architecture.  There  were  bonfires  in  the 
principal  streets,  with  groups  about  them  in  such  old-fashioned 
garbs,  that  they  looked  like  the  fantastic  figures  that  roam  tlie 
streets  in  carnival  time.  Even  the  stately  dames  who  gazed 
from  the  balconies,  which  tliey  had  hung  with  antique  tapestry, 
looked  more  like  effigies  dressed  up  for  a  quaint  mummery, 
than  like  ladies  in  their  fashionable  attire.  Every  thing,  in 
short,  l)ore  the  stamp  of  former  ages,  as  if  the  world  had  sud- 
denly rolled  back  a  few  centuries.  Nor  was  this  to  be  wondered 
at.  Had  not  the  Island  of  tlie  Seven  Cities  been  for  several 
hundred  years  cut  off  from  all  communication  with  the  rest  of 
the  world,  and  was  it  not  natural  that  the  inhabitants  should 
retain  many  of  the  modes  and  customs  brought  here  by  their 
ancestors  ? 

One  ching  certainly  they  had  conserved ;  the  old-fashioned 
Spanish  gravity  and  stateliness.  Thougli  this  was  a  time  of 
public  rejoicing,  and  though  Don  Fernando  was  the  object  of 
their  gratulations,  every  thing  was  conducted  with  the  mo^t 
solemn  ceremony,  and  wherever  lie  appeared,  instead  of  accla- 
mations, he  was  received  with  i)rofound  silence,  and  the  most 
formal  reverences  and  sw^yings  of  their  sombreros. 

Arrived  at  the  palace  of  the  Alcayde,  the  usual  ceremonial 
was  repeated.     The  chamberlain  knocked  for  admission. 


II,. 


i£:s. 


g  an  armed 
cros8-bow3 


ling  up,  he- 

the  city,  at 

an  ancient 


iisty  hingeg. 
iors,  in  bat- 
ient  maces, 
mor.  They 
feet  silence, 
illuminated, 
and  solemn 
afires  in  the 
d-fashioned 
at  roam  the 

who  gazed 
ue  tapestry, 

mummery, 
•y  thing,  in 
•Id  had  sud- 
)e  wondered 

for  several 

the  rest  of 
ants  should 
re  by  their 

d-fashioned 
I  a  time  of 
e  object  of 
h  the  mo^t 
id  of  accb,- 
d  the  most 

ceremonial 
ion. 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND. 


ei 


♦*  Who  is  there?  "  demanded  the  porter. 

"  The  Adelantado  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

"  He  is  welcome.     Pass  on." 

The  grand  portal  was  thrown  open.  The  chamberlain  led  the 
way  up  a  vast  but  heavily  moulded  marble  staircase,  and  so 
through  one  of  those  interminable  suites  of  apartments,  that 
are  the  pride  of  Spanish  palaces.  All  were  furnished  in  a  style 
of  obsolete  magnificence.  As  they  passed  through  the  cham- 
bers, the  title  of  Don  Fernando  was  forwarded  on  by  servants 
stationed  at  every  door;  and  everywhere  produced  the  most 
profound  reverences  and  courtesies.  At  length  they  reached  a 
magnificent  saloon,  blazing  with  tapers,  in  which  the  Alcayde, 
and  the  principal  dignitaries  of  the  city,  were  waiting  to  receive 
their  illustrious  guest.  The  grand  chamberlain  presented  Don 
Fernando  in  due  form,  and  falling  back  among  the  other 
officers  of  the  household,  stood  as  usual  curling  his  whiskers 
and  stroking  his  forked  beard. 

Don  Fernando  was  received  by  the  Alcayde  and  the  other 
dignitaries  with  the  same  stately  and  formal  courtesy  that  he 
had  everywhere  remarked.  In  fact,  there  was  so  much  form 
and  ceremonial,  that  it  seemed  difficult  to  get  at  any  thing 
social  or  substantial.  Nothing  but  bows,  and  compliments,  and 
old-fashioned  courtesies.  The  Alcayde  and  his  courtiers  resem- 
bled, in  face  and  form,  those  quamt  worthies  to  be  seen  in  the 
pictures  of  old  illuminated  manuscripts ;  while  the  cavaliers 
and  dames  who  thronged  the  saloon,  might  have  been  taken 
for  the  antique  figures  of  gobelin  tapestry  suddenly  vivified 
and  put  in  motion. 

The  banquet,  which  had  been  kept  back  until  the  arrival  of 
Don  Fernando,  was  now  announced ;  and  such  a  feast !  such 
unknown  dishes  and  obsolete  dainties ;  with  the  peacock,  that 
bird  of  state  and  ceremony,  served  up  in  full  plumage,  in  a 
golden  dish,  at  the  head  of  the  table.  And  then,  as  Don  Fer- 
nando cast  his  eyes  over  the  glittering  board,  what  a  vista  of 
odd  heads  and  head-dresses,  of  formal  bearded  dignitaries,  and 
stately  dames,  with  castellated  locks  and  towering  plumes ! 

As  fate  would  have  it,  on  the  other  side  of  Don  Fernando, 
was  seated  the  daughter  of  the  Alcayde.  She  was  arrayed,  it 
is  true,  in  a  dress  that  might  have  been  worn  before  the  Hood  ; 
but  then,  she  had  a  melting  black  Andalusian  eye,  that  was 
perfectly  irresistible.  Her  voice,  too,  her  manner,  her  move- 
ments, all  smacked  of  Andalusia,  and  showed  how  female  fas- 
cination may  be  transmitted  from  age  to  age,  and  clime  to 
dime,  without  ever  losing  its  power,  or  going  out  of  fashion. 


82 


WOLFEBT'S  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


{•   « 


Those  who  know  the  witchery  of  the  sex,  in  that  most  amorous 
region  of  old  Spain,  may  judj^e  what  must  iiave  been  the  fusel- 
nation  to  wliieh  Don  Fernando  was  exixjsed,  when  seated  beside 
one  of  the  most  captivating  of  its  descendants.  He  was,  as  ims 
already  been  hinted,  of  an  inflammable  temperament ;  with  a 
heart  ready  to  get  in  a  light  blaze  at  every  instant.  And  then 
he  hud  l)een  so  wearied  by  pompous,  tedious  old  cavaliers,  with 
their  formal  lx)ws  and  speeches  ;  is  it  to  be  wondered  at  that  lie 
turned  with  delight  to  the  Alcayde's  daughter,  all  smiles,  ami 
dimples,  and  melting  looks,  and  melting  accents?  Besides,  for 
I  wish  to  give  him  every  excuse  in  my  power,  he  was  in  a  par- 
ticularly excitable  moml,  from  the  novelty  of  the  scene  belore 
him,  and  his  head  Wiis  almost  turned  with  this  sudden  and 
complete  realization  of  all  his  hopes  and  fancies ;  and  then,  in 
the  flurry  of  the  moment,  he  had  taken  frequent  draughts  at 
the  wine-cup,  presented  him  at  every  instant  by  officious  pages, 
nnd  all  the  world  knows  the  eflfect  of  such  draughts  in  giving 
potency  to  female  charms.  In  a  word,  there  is  no  concealing 
the  matter,  the  banquet  wius  not  half  over,  before  Don  Fernan- 
do was  making  love,  outright,  to  the  Alcayde's  daughter.  It 
was  his  old  habitude,  contracted  long  before  his  matrimonial 
engagement.  The  young  lady  hung  her  head  coyly ;  her  eye 
rested  upon  a  ruby  heart,  sparkling  in  a  ring  on  the  hand  of 
Don  Fernando,  a  parting  gage  of  love  from  Serafina.  A  blush 
crimsoned  her  very  temples.  She  darted  a  glance  of  doubt  at 
the  ring,  anil  then  at  Don  Fernando.  He  read  her  doubt,  and 
in  the  giddy  intoxication  of  the  moment,  drew  off  the  pledge  of 
his  affianced  bride,  and  slipped  it  on  the  Qugc/  of  the  Alcayde's 
daughter. 

At  this  moment  the  banquet  broke  up.  The  chamberlain 
with  his  lofty  demeanor,  and  his  lack-lustre  eyes,  stood  before 
him,  and  announced  that  the  barge  was  waiting  to  conduct  him 
back  to  the  caravel.  Don  Fernando  took  a  formal  leave  of  the 
Alcayde  and  his  dignitaries,  and  a  tender  farewell  of  the  Al- 
oayde  s  daughter,  with  a  promise  to  throw  himself  at  her  feet 
on  the  following  day.  He  was  rowed  back  to  his  vessel  in  the 
same  slow  and  stately  manner,  to  the  cadence  of  the!  same 
mournful  old  ditty.  He  retired  to  his  cabin,  his  brain  whirling 
with  all  that  he  had  seen,  and  his  heart  now  and  then  giving 
lilm  a  twinge  us  he  recollected  his  temporary  infidelity  to  the 
beautiful  Seraliuu.  He  flung  himself  on  his  bed,  and  soon  fell 
into  a  feverish  sleep.  His  dreams  were  wild  and  incoherent. 
Hov/  long  he  slept  he  knew  not,  but  when  b"  awoke  he  found 
himself  in  a  strange  cubiu,  with  persouii  aruuud  him  of  whom 


flES. 

nost  amorous 
eeii  the  fusci- 
soiited  besido 

0  Wiis,  as  has 
nent ;  with  a 

And  then 
iivaliers,  with 
•ed  at  that  he 

1  smiles,  and 
IJesides,  for 

was  in  a  par- 
scene  before 
sudden   and 
and  then,  in 
drauglits  at 
licious  pafjes, 
:lits  in  <r\\'n\(r 
lo  coueealiu"]; 
Don  Feruaii- 
hiuojliter.     It 
matrimonial 
yly  ;  her  eye 
tiie  hand  of 
na.     A  blush 
e  of  doubt  at 
'r  doubt,  and 
the  pledfie  of 
;he  Alcayile's 

chamberlain 
stood  before 
»  conduct  him 
1  leave  of  the 
'11  of  the  Al- 
f  at  her  feet 

vessel  in  the 
of  tli(!  same 
train  whirl inij 
[  then  t;'iviii!^ 
idelity  to  tliif 
and  soon  fell 
1  incoherent, 
jke  he  found 
lim  of  whom 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND. 


68 


he  hftd  no  knowledgv-^.  He  rubbed  his  eyes  to  ascertain  \,  lether 
he  were  really  awRKe.  In  reply  to  his  inquiries,  he  was  in- 
formed that  he  was  on  Iward  of  a  Portuguese  ship,  bound  to 
Lisbon  ;  having  been  taken  senseless  from  a  wreck  drifting 
ftl)out  the  ocean. 

Don  Fernando  was  confounded  and  perplexed.  He  retraced 
every  thing  distinctly  that  had  happened  to  him  in  the  Island 
of  the  Seven  Cities,  and  until  he  had  retired  to  rest  on  board  of 
the  caravel.  Had  his  \e8sel  been  driven  from  her  anchors,  and 
wrecked  during  his  sleep?  The  people  about  him  could  give 
him  no  information  on  the  subject.  He  talked  to  them  of  the 
Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  and  of  all  that  had  befallen  him  there. 
They  regarded  his  words  as  the  ravings  of  delirium,  and  in 
their  honest  solicitude,  administered  such  rough  remedies,  that 
he  was  fain  to  drop  the  subject,  and  observe  a  cautious  taci- 
turnity. 

At  length  they  arrived  in  the  Tagus,  and  anchored  before  the 
famous  city  of  Lislx)n.  Don  Fernando  sprang  joyfully  on 
shore,  and  hastened  to  his  ancestral  mansion.  To  his  surprise, 
it  was  inhabited  by  strangers ;  and  when  he  asked  about  his 
family,  no  one  could  give  him  any  information  concerning 
them. 

He  now  sought  the  mansion  of  Don  Ramiro,  for  the  tempo- 
rary flame  kindled  by  the  bright  eyes  of  the  Alcayde's  daughter 
had  long  since  burnt  itself  out,  and  his  genuine  passion  for 
Soraflna  had  revived  with  all  its  fervor.  He  approached  the 
balcony,  beneath  which  he  had  so  often  serenaded  her.  Did 
his  eyes  deceive  him  ?  No !  There  was  Serafma  herself  at  the 
balcony.  An  exclamation  of  rapture  burst  from  him,  as  he 
raised  his  arms  toward  her.  She  cast  upon  him  a  look  of  indig- 
nation, and  hastily  retiring,  closed  the  casement.  Could  she 
have  heard  of  his  flirtation  with  the  Alcayde's  daughter?  He 
would  soon  dispel  every  doubt  of  his  constancy.  The  door  was 
open.  He  rushed  up-stairs,  and  entering  the  room,  thrt.v  him- 
self at  her  feet.  She  shrank  back  with  affright,  and  took 
refuge  in  the  arms  of  a  youthful  cavalier. 

''  What  mean  you,  Sir,"  cried  the  latter,  "  by  this  iutiu- 
sion .'' 

'*  Wliat  right  have  you,"  replied  Don  Fernando,  "to  ask 
the  question?  " 

"  The  right  of  an  affianced  suitor !  " 

Don  Fernando  started,  and  turned  pale.  "Oh,  Serafina ! 
Serafma!  "  cried  he  in  a  tone  of  agony,  "L  this  thy  plighted 
constancy  ? ' ' 


i 


*■ 


M 


64 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


"  Seraflna?  —  what  moan  you  by  Sorafina?  If  it  l)e  tliis 
young  lady  you  intend,  her  name  is  Maria." 

*'  Is  not  this  Seralina  Alvarez,  and  is  not  that  her  portrait?" 
cried  Don  Fernando,  pointing  to  a  picture  of  his  mistress. 

"Holy  Virgin!"  cried  the  young  lady;  "he  is  talking  of 
my  great-grandn)other !  " 

An  explanation  ensued,  if  that  could  be  called  an  explana- 
tion, which  plunged  the  unfortunate  Fernando  into  tenfold 
perplexity.  If  he  might  believe  his  eyes,  he  saw  before  him 
his  beloved  Serafiua ;  if  he  might  lx.'lieve  his  ears,  it  was  merely 
her  hereditary  form  and  features,  perpetuated  in  the  person  of 
her  great-granddaughter. 

His  bram  began  to  spin.  He  sought  the  ofllco  of  the  Min- 
ister of  Marine,  and  maile  a  report  of  his  expedition,  and  of  the 
Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  which  he  had  so  fortunately  discov- 
ered. Nobotly  knew  any  thing  of  such  an  expedition,  or  sucli 
an  island.  He  declared  that  he  had  undertaken  the  enterprise 
under  a  formal  contract  with  the  crown,  and  had  receivt'(l  a 
regular  commission,  constituting  him  Adelantado.  This  must 
be  matter  of  record,  and  he  insisted  loudly,  that  the  books  of 
the  department  should  l)e  consulted.  The  wordy  strife  at  length 
attracted  the  attention  of  an  old,  gray-headed  clerk,  wiio  sat 
perched  on  a  high  stool,  at  a  high  desk,  with  iron-rimmed  spec- 
tacles on  the  top  of  a  thin,  pinched  nose,  copying  records  into 
an  enormous  folio.  He  had  wintered  and  summered  in  the 
department  for  a  great  i)art  of  a  century,  until  he  had  almost 
grown  to  be  a  piece  of  the  desk  at  which  he  sat ;  his  memory 
was  a  mere  index  of  official  facts  and  documents,  and  his  brain 
was  little  better  than  red  tape  and  parchment.  After  pecriu;^ 
down  for  a  time  from  his  lofty  perch,  and  ascertaining  the  mat- 
ter in  controversy,  he  put  his  i)en  behind  his  ear,  and  de- 
scended.  He  remembered  to  have  heard  something  from  his 
predecessor  about  an  expedition  of  the  kind  in  question,  but 
then  it  had  sailed  during  the  reign  of  Don  loam  II.,  and  he  had 
been  dead  at  least  a  hundred  years.  To  pui  the  matter  Ix^yond 
dispute,  however,  the  archives  of  the  Torve  do  Tombo,  that 
sepulchre  of  old  Portuguese  documents,  were  diligently  searched, 
and  a  record  was  found  of  a  contract  between  the  crown  and 
one  Fernando  de  Ulmo,  for  the  discovery  of  the  Island  of  the 
Seven  Cities,  and  of  a  commission  s(!cured  to  him  as  Adelan- 
tado of  the  country  he  might  discover. 

"There!"  cried  Don  Fernando,  triumphantly,  "there  you 
nave  proof,  before  your  own  eyes,  of  v.'hat  I  have  said.  I  am 
the  Fernando  de  Ulmo  specified  in  that  record.     I  have  diseov- 


lES. 

f   It  be  this 

r  iKirtrait:  " 

istrcss. 

is  tiiliviii}:;  of 

ftti  cxplaiiiv- 

into   tenfold 

f  boforo  liiin 

it  was  nu'iely 

he  peison  of 

of  the  Min- 
in,  antl  of  tlio 
lately  discov- 
ition,  or  sucli 
be  enterprise 
(1   received  a 
.     This  must 
tiie  l)(K)l<s  of 
:rife  at  lencjili 
lerl\,  wliu  sat 
rimmed  spec- 
records  into 
Tiere<l  in   the 
^  had  almost 
;  his  memory 
and  ills  brain 
/Vfter  peeriiiij; 
nin<j;  tlie  mat- 
ear,   and   de- 
ling from  liis 
question,  but 
.,  and  he  had 
natter  l)eyond 
Tombo,  that 
ntly  searelied, 
le  crown  and 
[shind  of   the 
n  as  Adelau- 

"  there  you 
said.  I  am 
have  diseov- 


THE  ENCHANTED  ISLAND. 


66 


ered  the  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities,  and  am  entitled   to  be 
Adelantado,  according  to  the  contract." 

The  story  of  Don  Fernando  had  certainly,  what  is  [ironounced 
the  best  of  historical  foundation,  documentary  evidence  ;  but 
when  a  man,  in  the  bloom  of  youth,  talked  of  events  that  had 
taken  place  above  a  century  previously,  as  having  happened  to 
himself,  it  is  no  wonder  that  he  was  set  down  for  a  madman. 

The  old  clerk  looked  at  him  from  above  and  below  his  spec- 
tacles, shrugged  his  shoulders,  stroked  his  chin,  reascended  his 
lofty  stool,  took  the  pen  from  behind  his  ear,  and  resumed  his 
daily  and  eternal  task,  copying  records  into  the  lit'tieth  volume 
of  a  series  of  gigantic  folios.  The  other  clerks  winked  at  each 
otiier  shrewdly,  and  dispersed  to  their  several  places,  and  poor 
Don  Fernando,  thus  left  to  himself.  Hung  out  of  the  ollice, 
almost  driven  wild  by  these  repeated  perplexities. 

In  the  confusion  of  his  mind,  he  instinctively  repaired  to  the 
mansion  of  Alvarez,  but  it  was  barred  against  him.  To  break 
the  delusion  under  which  the  youth  apparently  labored,  and  to 
convince  him  that  the  Serafina  about  whom  he  raved  was 
really  dead,  he  was  conducted  to  her  tomb.  There  she  lay,  a 
stately  matron,  cut  out  in  alabaster ;  and  there  lay  her  husband 
beside  her ;  a  portly  cavalier,  in  armor ;  and  there  knelt,  on 
each  side,  the  efligies  of  a  numerous  progeny,  proving  that  she 
had  been  a  fruitful  vine.  Even  the  very  monument  gave  proof 
of  the  lapse  of  time,  for  the  hands  of  her  husi)and,  which  were 
folded  as  if  in  prayer,  had  lost  their  fingers,  and  the  face  of  the 
once  lovely  Serafina  was  noseless. 

Don  Fernando  felt  a  transient  glow  of  indignation  at  behold- 
ing this  monumental  proof  of  the  inconstancy  of  his  mistress ; 
but  who  could  expect  a  mistress  to  remain  constant  during  a 
whole  century  of  absence?  And  what  right  had  he  to  rail 
al)out  constancy,  after  what  had  passed  between  him  and  the 
Alcayde's  daughter?  The  unfortunate  cavalier  performed  one 
pious  act  of  tender  devotion ;  he  had  the  alabaster  nose  of 
Serafina  restored  by  a  skilful  statuary,  and  then  tore  himself 
from  the  tomb. 

He  could  now  no  longer  doubt  the  fact  that,  somehow  or 
other,  he  had  skipped  over  a  whole  centur^ ,  during  the  night 
he  had  spent  at  the  Island  of  the  Seven  Cities  ;  and  he  was  now 
as  complete  a  stranger  in  his  native  city,  as  if  he  had  never 
been  there.  A  thousand  times  did  he  wish  himself  back  to 
that  wonderful  island,  with  its  antKjuated  basKiuet  halls,  where 
had    been  so  courteously  received  ;  and  now  that  tiie  ouee 


/le 


young  and  beautiful  Serafina  was  nothing   but  y  great-graud- 


w 


i,  ? 


66 


WOLFEET'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


■  u 


mother  in  marble,  with  generations  of  desocnclants,  a  thousand 
times  would  he  recall  the  niclting  black  eyes  of  the  Ak^ayde's 
daughter,  who  doubtless,  like  himself,  was  still  (lourishiiiir  in 
fresh  juvenility,  and  breathe  a  secret  wisli  that  he  were  sealed 
by  her  side. 

He  would  at  once  have  set  on  foot  another  expedition,  at  his 
own  expense,  to  cruise  in  search  of  the  sainted  island,  hut  liis 
means  were  exhausted.  He  endeavored  to  rouse  others  to  tlie 
enterprise,  setting  forth  the  certainty  of  profitable  results,  of 
which  his  own  experience  furnished  sach  unquestionable  proof. 
Alas !  no  one  would  give  faith  to  his  tale ;  but  looked  upon  it 
as  the  feverish  dream  of  a  shipwrecked  man.  He  persisted 
in  his  efforts ;  holding  forth  in  all  places  and  all  coinpanii-s, 
until  he  became  an  object  of  jest  and  jeer  to  the  light-niindcd, 
who  mistook  his  earnest  enthusiasm  for  a  proof  of  insanity  ;  .unl 
the  very  children  in  the  streets  bantered  him  with  the  title  of 
"  The  Adelantado  of  the  Seven  Cities." 

Finding  all  his  efforts  in  vain,  in  his  native  city  of  Lisbon, 
he  took  siiipping  for  the  Canaries,  as  being  nearer  the  latitude 
of  his  former  cruise,  and  inhabited  by  people  given  to  nautical 
adventure.  Here  he  found  ready  listeners  to  his  story  ;  for  tlia 
old  pilots  and  mariners  of  those  parts  were  notorious  island- 
hunters  and  devout  believers  in  all  the  wonders  of  the  sias. 
Indeed,  one  and  all  treated  his  adventure  as  a  common  occnr- 
rence,  and  turning  to  eacli  other,  with  a  sagacious  nod  of  the 
head,  observed,  "  He  has-  been  at  the  Island  of  St.  Hrandan." 

They  then  went  on  to  inform  him  of  that  great  marvel  and 
enigma  of  the  ocean  ;  of  its  repeated  appearance  to  the  inhab- 
itants of  their  islands ;  and  of  the  many  l)ut  ineffectual  expedi- 
tions that  had  been  made  in  search  of  it.  They  took  him  to 
a  promontory  of  the  island  of  Palma,  from  wlienee  the  shadowy 
iSt.  Brandan  had  oftenest  been  descried,  and  they  pointed  out 
the  very  tract  in  the  west  where  its  mountains  had  been  see'i. 

Don  Fernando  listened  with  rapt  attention.  He  had  no  longer 
a  doubt  that  this  mysterious  and  fugacious  island  must  be  the 
same  with  that  of  the  Seven  Cities  ;  and  that  there  must  he 
some  supernatural  influence  connected  with  it,  that  had  operated 
upon  himself,  and  made  the  events  of  a  night  occupy  the  space 
of  a  century. 

He  endeavored,  but  in  vain,  to  rouse  the  islanders  to  another 
attempt  at  discovery  ;  they  had  given  up  tlie  phantom  island  iis 
indeed  inaccessible.  Fernando,  however,  was  not  to  be  dis- 
couraged. The  idea  wore  itself  deeper  and  deeper  in  his  mini!. 
until  it  became  thp  engrossing  subject  of  his  thoughts  aiid  uhjui 


m\R 


IE8. 

a  thousand 
e  Alcaydc's 
oui'lsliiii;!;  in 
were  seated 

ition,  at  liis 
and,  hut  his 
thers  to  tlie 
;  results,  of 
nal)le  i)i()of, 
•Ived  upon  it 
le  persisted 
i  companies, 
ight-niinded, 
nsanity  ;  and 
the  title  of 

y  of  Lisbon, 
the  latitiide 
1  to  nautical 
ory  ;  for  tlio 
rious   island- 
of   the  seas. 
mnion  oecnr- 
=i  nod  of  tiie 
Hrandan." 
',  marvel  and 
,0  the  inhah- 
ctual  expedi- 
took  him  to 
the  shadowy 
y  pointed  out 
been  seeii. 
lad  no  lonfi;er 
must  be  the 
lere  nuist  be 
had  operated 
ipy  the  s[)ae(' 

rs  to  another 
cm  island  as 
>t  to  be  dis- 
r  in  his  mim!. 
its  and  objeel 


NATIONAL  NOMENCLATURE. 


67 


of  his  being.  Every  morning  he  would  repair  to  the  promontory 
of  Palma,  and  sit  there  throughout  the  live-long  day,  in  hopes  of 
seeing  the  fairy  mountains  of  St.  Brandan  peering  above  the 
horizon  ;  every  evening  he  returned  to  his  home,  a  disappointed 
man,  but  ready  to  resume  his  jjost  on  the  following  morning. 

His  assiduity  was  all  in  vain.  He  grew  gray  in  his  ineffec- 
tual attempt ;  and  was  at  length  found  dead  at  his  post.  His 
grave  is  still  shown  in  the  island  of  Palma,  and  a  cross  is  erected 
on  the  spot  where  he  used  to  sit  and  look  out  upon  the  sea,  in 
hopes  of  the  reappearance  of  the  enchanted  island. 


NATIONAL  NOMENCLATURE. 

To    THE    EdITOU    op    THE    KnICKERBOCKEK. 

Sir :  I  am  somewhat  of  the  same  way  of  thinking,  in  regard 
to  names,  with  that  profound  philosopher,  Mr.  Shandy,  the 
elder,  who  maintained  that  some  inspired  high  thoughts  and 
heroic  aims,  while  others  entailed  irretrievable  meanness  and 
vulgarity :  insomuch  that  a  man  might  sink  under  the  insig- 
nificance of  his  name,  and  be  tibsolutely  "  Nicodemused  into 
nothing."  I  have  ever,  therefore,  thougiit  it  a  great  hardship 
for  a  man  to  be  obliged  to  struggle  through  life  with  some  ridic- 
ulous or  ignoble  Christian  name,  as  it  is  too  often  falsely  called, 
indicted  on  iiim  in  infancy,  when  he  could  not  choose  for  him- 
self ;  and  would  give  him  free  liberty  to  change  it  for  one  more 
to  his  taste,  when  he  had  arrived  at  years  of  discretion. 

I  have  the  same  notion  with  respect  to  local  names.  Some  at 
once  prepossess  us  in  favor  of  a  place ;  others  repel  us,  by  un- 
lucky associations  of  the  n.ind  ;  and  I  have  known  scenes  worthy 
of  being  the  very  haunt  of  poetry  and  romance,  yet  doomed  to 
^•retrieval)le  vulgarity,  by  some  ill-chosen  name,  which  not  even 
Jie  magic  numbers  of  a  Halleck  or  a  Bkvant  could  elevate  into 
loetieal  acceptation. 

This  is  an  evil  unfortunately  too  prevalent  throughout  our 
eountry.  Nature  has  stamped  che  land  with  features  of  sub- 
limity and  beauty  ;  but  some  of  our  noblest  mountains  and  love- 
liest streams  are  in  danger  of  remaining  forever  unhonored 
and  unsung,  from  bearing  appellations  totally  abhorrent  to  the 
Mi'se.  In  the  first  place,  our  country  is  deluged  with  names 
taken  from  places  in  the  old  world,  and  applied  to  places  having 
no  possible  atliuity  or  resemblance  to  their  namesakes.     Thia 


■  f 


m     ) 


58 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


/ 


betokens  a  forlorn  poverty  of  invention,  and  a  second-hand 
spirit,  content  to  cover  its  nakedness  with  borrowed  or  cast-off 
clothes  of  P^uropp 

Then  we  liave  a  shallow  affectation  of  scholarship :  the  whole 
catalogue  of  ancient  worthies  is  shaken  out  from  the  back  of 
LerapriCsre's  Classical  J^ictionary,  and  a  wide  region  of  wild 
country  sprinkled  over  with  the  names  of  the  heroes,  poets, 
and  sages  of  antiquity,  jumbled  into  the  most  whimsical  jii.\ta- 
position.  Then  we  have  our  political  god-fathers;  topograplii- 
eal  engineers,  i)erhaps,  or  persons  employed  by  government  tc 
survey  and  lay  out  townships.  These,  forsooth,  glorify  the 
patrons  that  give  them  br^'ad  ;  so  we  have  the  names  of  the 
great  oflleial  men  of  the  day  scattered  over  the  land,  as  if  they 
were  the  real  "  salt  of  tiie  earth,"  with  which  it  was  to  be  sea- 
soned. Well  for  us  is  it,  when  these  oHicial  great  men  happen  to 
have  names  of  fair  acceptation  ;  but  woe  unto  us,  should  a  Tuhbs 
or  a  Potts  be  in  power :  we  are  sure,  in  a  little  wliile,  to  lind 
Tubbsvilles  and  Pottsylvanias  springing  up  in  every  direction. 

Under  these  melancholy  dispensations  of  taste  and  loyalty, 
therefore,  Mr.  Editor,  it  is  with  a  feeling  of  dawning  hope,  that 
I  have  lately  perceived  the  attention  of  persons  of  intelligence 
beginning  to  be  awakened  on  this  subject.  I  trust  if  the  mat- 
ter should  once  be  taken  up,  it  will  not  be  readily  abandoned. 
We  are  yet  young  enough,  as  a  country,  to  remedy  and  reform 
much  of  wiiat  has  been  done,  and  to  release  many  of  our  rising 
towns  and  cities,  and  our  noble  streams,  from  names  calculatetl 
to  vulgarize  the  land. 

I  have,  on  a  former  occasion,  suggested  the  expediency  of 
searching  out  the  original  Indian  names  of  places,  and  wherever 
they  are  striking  and  euphonious,  and  those  hy  which  they  have 
been  superseded  are  glaringly  objectionable,  to  restore  tliem. 
They  would  have  the  merit  of  originality,  and  of  belonging  to 
the  country  ;  and  they  would  remain  as  relics  of  the  native  h)r*l.-5 
of  the  soil,  when  every  other  vestige  had  disappeared.  Many 
of  these  names  may  easily  be  regained,  by  reference  to  old  title 
deeds,  and  to  the  archives  of  states  and  counties.  In  my  own 
case,  by  examining  tlie  records  of  tiie  county  clerk's  ollice,  I 
have  discovered  the  Indian  names  of  various  places  and  objects 
in  the  neighborhood,  and  have  found  them  infinitely  superior  to 
the  trite,  poverty-stricken  names  which  had  been  given  by  the 
settlers.  A  beautiful  pastoral  stream,  for  instance,  wnicli  winds 
for  many  a  mile  through  one  of  the  loveliest  little  valleys  in  the 
Btate,  has  long  been  known  by  the  common-place  name  of  the 
*'  Suw-raill  Kivf."     In  t^e  old  Jndiun  grants,  it  is  designated 


ES. 


NA  TIONA  L  NOMENCLA  TUBE. 


econd-hand 
1  or  cast-off 

the  whole 
the  back  of 
ion  of  wild 
roes,  poets, 
isieal  jiiAta- 
topograplii. 
i^ernnK'iit  Ic 
glorify  tlie 
lines  of  the 
,  as  if  they 
s  to  be  sea- 
n  happen  to 
)nhl  a  Tubbs 
lile,  to  (iiul 
direction, 
and  loyalty, 
g  hope,  that 
intelligence 
if  the  mat- 
abandoned, 
and  reform 
)f  onr  rising 
IS  calculated 

:pediency  of 
nd  wherever 
L'h  they  have 
.'Store  tliem. 
belonging  to 
native  IokU 
ired.  Many 
e  to  old  title 
In  my  own 
rk's  ollice,  I 
I  and  objects 
y  superior  to 
!j;iven  by  the 
wmcli  winds 
'alleys  in  the 
name  of  the 
is  designated 


as  the  Neperan.  Another,  a  perfectly  wizard  stream,  which 
winds  through  the  wildest  recesses  of  Sleepy  Hollow,  bears  the 
humdrum  name  of  Mill  Creek  ;  in  the  Indian  grants,  it  sustains 
the  euphonious  title  of  the  Pocantico. 

Similar  researches  have  released  Long  Island  from  many  of 
'hose  paltry  and  vulgar  names  which  fringed  its  beautiful  shores ; 
tteir  Cow  Bays,  and  Cow  Necks,  and  Oyster  Ponds,  and  Mos- 
quito Coves,  which  spread  a  speil  of  vulgarity  over  the  whole 
island,  and  kept  persons  of  taste  and  fancy  at  a  distance. 

It  would  be  an  object  worthy  the  attention  of  the  historical 
societies,  which  are  springing  up  in  various  parts  of  the  Union, 
to  have  maps  executed  of  their  respective  states  or  neighbor- 
hoods, in  which  all  the  Indian  local  names  should,  as  far  as 
possible,  be  restored.  In  fact,  it  appears  to  me  that  the  nomen- 
clature of  the  country  is  almost  of  sufficient  importance  for  the 
foundation  of  a  distinct  society ;  or  rather,  a  corresponding 
association  of  persons  of  taste  and  judgment,  of  all  parts  of  the 
Union.  Such  an  association,  if  properly  constituted  and  com- 
posed, comprising  especially  all  the  literary  talent  of  the  coun- 
try, though  it  might  not  have  legislative  power  in  its  enactments, 
yet  would  have  the  all-pervading  power  of  the  press ;  and  the 
changes  in  nomenclature  which  it  might  dictate,  being  at  once 
adopted  by  elegant  writers  in  prose  and  poetry,  and  interwoven 
rt'ith  the  literature  of  the  country,  would  ultimately  pass  into 
popular  currency. 

Should  such  a  reforming  association  arise,  I  beg  to  recommend 
to  its  attention  all  those  mongrel  names  that  have  the  adjec- 
tive New  prefixed  to  them,  and  pray  they  may  be  one  and  all 
kicked  out  of  the  country.  I  am  for  none  of  these  second-hand 
appellations,  that  stamp  us  a  second-hand  people,  and  that  are 
to  perpetuate  us  a  new  country  to  the  end  of  time.  Odds  my 
life !  Mr.  Editor,  I  hope  and  trust  we  are  to  live  to  be  an  old 
nation,  as  well  as  our  neighbors,  and  have  no  idea  that  our 
cities,  when  they  shall  have  attained  to  venerable  antiquity, 
3hall  still  be  dul)bed  New  York,  and  New  London,  and  new  this 
and  vew  that,  like  the  Pont-Neuf,  (the  New  Bridge,)  at  Paris, 
which  is  the  oldest  bridge  in  that  capital,  or  like  the  vicar  of 
Wakefield's  horse,  which  continued  to  be  called  "  the  colt," 
until  he  died  of  old  age. 

Speaking  of  New  York,  reminds  me  of  some  observations 
which  I  met  with  some  time  since,  in  one  of  the  public  papers, 
about  the  name  of  our  state  and  city.  The  writer  proposes  to 
8ubstituLe  for  the  present  names,  those  of  the  State  of  Ontario, 
and  the  City  op  Manha'itan.     I  concur  in  his  suggestion  most 


Mi 


ff, 


ro 


WOLFERT^S  noOST  ANP  MtSCSLLANIES. 


M 


H  :■■ 


I 


n  ! 


11 


heartily.  Though  born  and  brought  up  in  the  city  of  New 
York,  and  though  I  love  every  stick  and  stone  about  it,  yet  I  do 
not,  nor  ever  did,  relish  its  name.  I  like  neither  its  sound  nor 
its  significance.  As  to  its  significance^  the  very  adjective  new 
gives  to  our  great  commercial  metropolis  a  second-hand  char- 
acter, as  if  referring  to  some  older,  more  dignified,  and  impor- 
tant place,  of  which  it  was  a  mere  copy ;  though  in  fact,  if  I 
am  rightly  Informed,  the  whole  name  comm.emorates  a  grant 
by  Charles  II.  to  his  brother,  the  Duke  of  York,  made  in  the 
spirit  of  royal  munificence,  of  a  tract  of  country  which  did  not 
belong  to  him.  As  to  the  sound,  whal  can  you  make  of  it, 
either  in  poetry  or  prose  ?  New  York  !  Why,  Sir,  if  it  were  to 
share  the  fate  of  Troy  itself ;  to  suffer  a  ten  years'  siege,  and  be 
sacked  and  plundered ;  no  modern  Homer  would  ever  be  able 
to  elevate  the  name  to  epic  dignity. 

Now,  Sir,  Ontario  would  be  a  name  worthy  of  the  empire 
state.  It  bears  with  it  the  majesty  of  that  internal  sea  which 
washes  our  northwestern  shore.  Or,  if  any  objection  should  be 
made,  from  its  not  being  completely  embraced  within  our  boun- 
daries, there  is  the  Moiiegan,  one  of  the  Indian  names  for  tliat 
glorious  river,  the  Hudson,  which  would  furnish  an  excellent 
state  appellation.  So  also  New  York  might  be  called  Manhatta, 
as  it  is  named  in  some  of  the  early  records,  and  Manhattan  used 
as  the  adjective.  Manhattan,  however,  stands  well  as  a  sub- 
stantive, and  "  Manhattanese,"  which  I  observe  Mr.  Cooper 
has  adopted  in  some  of  his  writings,  would  be  a  very  good 
appellation  for  a  citizen  of  the  commercial  metroiX)lis. 

A  word  or  two  more,  Mr.  p]ditor,  and  I  have  done.  We 
want  a  national  name.  We  want  it  poetically,  and  we  want 
it  politically.  With  the  poetical  necessity  of  the  case  I  shall 
not  trouble  myself.  I  leaie  it  to  our  poets  to  tell  how  they 
manage  to  steer  that  collocation  of  words,  "The  United  States 
of  North  America,"  down  the  swelling  tide  of  song,  and  to 
float  the  whole  raft  out  upon  *he  sea  of  heroic  poesy.  I  am 
uov*  speaking  of  the  mere  purposes  of  common  life.  How  is 
a  citizen  of  this  republic  to  designate  himself?  As  an  Ameri- 
can? There  are  two  Americas,  each  subdivided  into  various 
empires,  rapidly  rising  in  importance.  As  a  citizen  of  the 
United  States?  It  is  a  clumsy,  lumlx'ring  title,  yet  still  it  is 
not  distinctive  ;  for  we  have  now  the  United  States  of  Central 
America;  and  heaven  knows  how  many  "  United  States"  may 
spring  up  under  the  Proteus  changes  of  Spanish  America. 

This  may  appear  matter  of  small  concernment ;  biit  uny  one 
that  has  travelled  in  foreign  countries  must  be  conscious  of  the 


.  I 


ity  of  New 
t  it,  yet  I  do 
:s  sound  nor 
Ijective  new 
-hand  char- 
and  irapor- 
in  fact,  if  I 
ites  a  grant 
nade  in  the 
bicli  did  not 
make  of  it, 
if  it  were  to 
iege,  and  be 
iver  be  able 

the  empire 
il  sea  which 
in  should  be 
in  our  boun- 
mes  for  that 
an  excellent 
[I  Manhatta, 
ihattan  used 
'11  as  a  sub- 
Mr.    COOI'ER 

i  very  good 
is. 

done.  We 
md  we  want 
case  I  shall 
?11  how  they 
nited  States 
3ug,  and  to 
oosy.  I  am 
fe.  How  is 
3  an  Amori- 
into  various 
tizen  of  the 
et  still  it  is 
3  of  Central 
states  "  may 
acrica. 
luiL  iiuy  one 
jcious  of  the 


NATIONAL  NOMENCLATURE. 


71 


embarrassment  and  circumlocution  sometimes  occasioned  by  the 
want  of  a  perfectly  distinct  and  explicit  national  appellation. 
In  France,  when  I  have  announced  myself  as  an  American, 
1  have  been  supposed  to  belong  to  one  of  the  French  colonies ; 
in  Spain,  to  be  from  Mexico,  or  Peru,  or  some  other  Spanish- 
American  country.  Repeatedly  I  have  found  myn  !f  involved  in  a 
long  geographical  and  political  definition  of  my  national  identity. 

Now,  Sir,  meaning  no  disrespect  to  any  of  our  co-heirs  of 
this  great  quarter  of  the  world,  I  am  for  none  of  this  copar- 
ceny in  a  name  that  is  to  mingle  us  up  with  the  riff-raff  colonies 
and  off  sets  of  every  nation  of  Europe.  The  title  of  American 
may  serve  to  tell  the  quarter  of  the  world  to  which  I  belong, 
the  same  as  a  Frenchman  or  an  Englishman  may  call  himself  a 
European  ;  but  I  want  my  own  peculiar  national  name  to  rally 
under.  I  want  an  appellation  that  shall  tell  at  once,  and  in  a 
way  not  to  be  mistaken,  that  I  belong  to  this  very  portion  of 
America,  geographical  and  political,  to  which  it  is  my  pride 
and  happiness  to  belong ;  that  I  am  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race 
which  founded  this  Anglo-Saxon  empire  in  the  wilderness  ;  and 
that  I  have  no  part  or  parcel  with  any  other  race  or  empire, 
Spanish,  French,  or  Portuguese,  in  either  of  the  Americas. 
Such  an  appellation,  Sir,  would  have  magic  in  it.  It  would 
bind  every  part  of  the  confederacy  together  as  with  a  key- 
stone ;  it  would  be  a  passport  to  the  citizen  of  our  republic 
throughout  the  world. 

We  have  it  in  our  power  to  furnish  ourselves  with  such  a 
national  appellation,  from  one  of  the  grand  and  eternal  fea- 
tures of  our  country ;  from  that  noble  chain  of  mountains 
which  formed  its  back-bone,  and  ran  through  the  "  old  con- 
federacy," when  it  first  declared  our  national  independence. 
I  allude  to  the  Appalachian  or  Alleghany  mountains.  We 
might  do  this  without  any  very  inconvenient  change  in  our 
present  titles.  We  might  still  use  the  phrase,  "The  United 
States,"  substituting  Appalachia,  or  Alleghania,  (I  should 
prefer  the  latter,)  in  place  of  America.  The  title  of  Appa- 
lachian, or  AUeghanian,  would  still  announce  us  as  Americans, 
but  would  specify  us  as  citizens  of  the  Great  Republic.  Even 
our  old  national  cipher  of  U.  S.  A.  might  remain  unaltered, 
designating  the  United  States  of  Alleghania. 

These  are  crude  ideas,  Mr.   Editor,   hastily  thrown  out  to 
elicit  the  ideas  of  others,  and   to  call  attention  to  a  subject 
of  more  national  importance  than  may  at  first  be  supposed. 
Very  respectfully  yours, 

GEOFFREY  CRAYON 


.1'! 


=  U 


72 


WOLFERT'S    ROOST  AND   MISCELLANIES. 


DESULTORY  THOUGHTS   ON  CRITICISM. 


i      <     V: 


"  Letanmn  write  never  eo  well,  there  are  now-a-days  a  Hort  of  perHons  they  call  crltlco, 
tkat,  egad,  uave  no  more  wit  in  thora  tliiiii  bo  many  liobliy  lioi  wcrt :  hut  they'll  laugh  i\t 
yon,  Sir,  and  find  fault,  and  pcnsiire  tliiMpH,  that,  t'Kail,  I'm  hhic  they  arc  not  abli-  tn 
do  theraselven ;  a  Bort  of  cnviouH  porBotiB,  that  emulate  t ho  «lorie»  of  personri  of  parts, 
and  think  to  hnild  their  fame  by  calumniation  of  pcrsoiiB  that,  eRud,  to  my  krinwledse, 
oj  all  perBonn  in  the  world,  are  in  nature  the  perBons  that  do  an  iriuch  deBpiite  all  that, 
as  —  a —    In  fine,  I'll  say  no  more  of  'em '.  "  —  11eiieau»al. 

All  the  world  knows  the  story  of  the  tempest-toHsed  voy- 
ager, who,  coraiug  upon  a  strauge  coast,  and  seeing  a  man 
hanging  in  chains,  hailed  it  with  joy,  as  the  sign  of  a  eivili/A'd 
country.  In  like  manner  we  may  hail,  as  a  proof  of  the  rapid 
advancement  of  civilization  and  lellnenient  iu  this  etninti-y,  tho 
increasing  number  of  delinquent  authors  daily  giblieted  for  the 
edification  of  the  public. 

In  this  respect,  as  in  every  other,  we  are  "  going  aheati  "  with 
accelerated  velocity,  and  promising  to  outstrip  the  superannu- 
ated countries  of  Europe.  It  is  really  astonishing  to  see  tlic 
number  of  tribunals  incessantly  springing  up  for  the  trial  of 
literary  offences.  Independent  of  the  high  eouils  of  Oyer  mid 
Terminer,  the  great  quarterly  veviews,  we  have  innuineraldi! 
minor  tribunals,  monthly  and  weekly,  down  lo  the  Tie-poudre 
courts  in  the  daily  papers  ;  insomuch  that  no  culprit  stands  so 
little  chance  of  escaping  castigation,  as  an  unlucky  author, 
guilty  of  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  plea-se  the  public. 

Seriously  speaking,  however,  it  is  qutstionable  whether  our 
national  literature  is  sufficiently  advanced,  to  bear  this  excess 
of  criticism  ;  and  whetlier  it  would  not  thrive  better,  if  allowed 
to  spring  up,  for  some  time  longer,  in  the  freshness  and  vigor 
of  native  vegetation.  Wlien  the  worthy  Judge  Coulter,  of 
Virginia,  opened  court  for  the  first  time  in  one  of  tlie  upper 
counties,  he  was  for  enforcing  all  the  rules  antl  regulations  that 
had  grown  into  use  in  the  old,  long-settled  counties.  ''  Tliis  is 
all  very  well,"  said  a  shrewd  old  farmer ;  •'  but  let  me  tell  you, 
Judge  Coulter,  yoi:  set  your  coulter  too  deep  for  a  new  soil." 

For  my  part,  I  doubt  whetlier  either  wiiter  or  leader  is 
benefited  by  what  is  commonly  called  criticism.  The  former 
is  rendered  cautious  and  distrustful ;  he  ftiars  to  give  wa}'  to 
those  kindling  emotions,  and  brave  sallies  of  thought,  which 
bear  him  up  to  excellence  ;  the  latter  is  made  fastidious  and 
cynical;  or  rather,  he  surreudei's  his  own  independent  taste  and 
judgment,  and  learns  to  like  and  dislike  at  second  hand. 


3  ! 


I'l 


ES. 


ISM. 

I  they  call  crltlcH, 

they'll  laugh  at 
are  mil  abk-  to 
n'lsons  of  parto, 
I  my  knowlfd^p, 
dcBpine  all  ibat, 


■toHsed  voy- 
eiujij  a  nia>i 
f  a  elvili/i'd 
Df  the  rapid 
country,  tin; 
etetl  for  tlu.' 

xheaci  "  with 
!  suporamiu- 
^  to  set.'  lh(^ 
the  trial  of 
jf  Oyi'r  ;ui(l 
iuiui)neral)K; 
i  Pie-poiuho 
•it  stands  so 
K'ky  author, 
ic. 
whether  our 

this  excess 
1',  if  allowed 
iS  and  vi;j;or 

Coulter,  of 
)f  the  uppt.'i' 
ilations  that 
,.  ''  Tliis  is 
ine  tell  you, 
new  soil." 
or  readcjr   is 

The  former 
give  way  to 
)Ught,  which 
stidious  and 
I'lit  taste  aud 
land. 


DESULTORY  TnOUGIITS  ON  CRITICISM. 


m 


Let  us,  for  t  moment,  consider  the  nature  of  this  thing  called 
criticism,  which  exerts  such  a  sway  over  the  literary  world. 
The  pronoun  tve,  used  hy  critics,  has  a  most  imposing  aud 
delusive  sound.  The  reader  pictures  to  himself  a  conclave  of 
learned  men,  deliberating  gravely  and  scrupulously  on  the  merits 
of  the  book  in  question  ;  examining  it  page  hy  page,  comparing 
and  balancing  their  opinions,  and  when  they  have  united  in  a 
conscientious  verdict,  publishing  it  for  the  benefit  of  the  world : 
whereas  the  criticism  is  generally  the  crude  and  hasty  production 
of  an  individual,  scribbling  to  while  away  an  idle  hour,  to  oblige 
rt  book-seller,  or  to  defray  current  expenses.  How  often  is  it 
the  passing  notion  of  the  hour,  affected  by  accidental  circum- 
stances;  by  indisposition,  by  peevishness,  by  vapors  or  indiges- 
tion ;  by  personal  prejudice,  or  party  feeling.  Sometimes  u 
work  is  sacrificed,  because  the  reviewer  wishes  a  satirical  article  ; 
sometimes  because  he  wants  a  humorous  one  ;  and  sometimes 
because  the  author  reviewed  has  become  offensively  celebrated, 
and  offers  high  game  to  the  literary  marksman. 

How  often  would  the  critic  himself,  if  a  conscientious  man, 
reverse  his  opinion,  had  he  time  to  revise  it  in  a  more  sunny 
moment ;  but  the  press  is  waiting,  the  printer's  devil  is  at  his 
elbow ;  the  article  is  wanted  to  make  the  requisite  variety  for 
the  number  of  the  review,  or  the  author  has  pressing  occasion 
for  the  sum  he  is  to  receive  for  the  article,  so  it  is  sent  off, 
all  blotted  and  blurred  ;  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  aud  the 
consolatory  ejaculation :  "Pshaw!  curse  it!  it's  nothing  but  a 
review !  " 

The  critic,  too,  who  dictates  thus  oracularly  to  the  world,  is 
perhaps  some  dingy,  ill-favored,  ill-manne/ed  varlet,  who,  were 
he  to  speak  by  word  of  mouth,  would  be  disregarded,  if  not 
scoffed  at ;  but  such  is  the  magic  of  types ;  such  the  mystic 
operation  of  anonymous  writing ;  such  the  potential  effect  of 
the  pronoun  ?re,  that  his  crude  decisions,  fulminated  through 
the  press,  become  circulated  far  and  wide,  control  the  opinions 
of  the  world,  aud  give  or  destroy  reputation. 

Many  readers  have  grown  timorous  in  their  judgments  since 
the  all-pervading  currency  of  criticism.  They  fear  to  express 
a  revised,  frank  opinion  about  any  new  work,  and  to  relish  it 
honestly  and  heartily,  lest  it  should  be  condemned  in  the  next 
review,  and  they  stand  convicted  of  bad  taste.  Hence  they 
hedge  their  opinions,  like  a  gambler  his  bets,  and  leave  an 
opening  to  retract,  and  retreat,  and  qualify,  and  neutralize  every 
unguarded  expression  of  delight,  until  their  very  praise  declines 
Into  a  faintness  tliat  is  damning. 


h 


i 


A  )  I 


.  =1!   . 


i 

liFI 

HIF>I 

1 

* 

1 

1 

J 

Hh'   i 


\ 


1 


m  I 


li 


74 


WOL''!:RT'f     <OOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


Were  every  'ur:,  op  'he  contrary,  to  judge  for  himself,  and 
speak  his  mind  ■^•■"'v  ,,  "ind  fearlessly,  we  should  have  uioie 
true  criticism  in  th^  world  '.in  at  present.  Whenever  a  person 
is  pleased  with  a  work,  he  nay  be  assured  that  it  has  <^o(h\ 
qualities.  An  author  who  [)leases  a  variety  of  readers,  must 
possess  substantial  powers  of  pleasing;  or,  in  other  words,  in- 
trinsic  merits  ;  for  othcwise  we  acknowledge  an  effect,  and 
deny  the  cause.  The  reader,  therefore,  should  not  suffer  iiim- 
self  to  be  readily  shaken  frcm  the  conviction  of  his  own  feelings, 
by  the  sweeping  censures  of  pseudo  critics.  The  author  he  ims 
admired,  may  be  chargeable  with  a  thousand  faults  ;  l)ut  it  is 
nevertheless  beauties  and  excellences  that  have  excited  liis 
admiration ;  and  he  should  recollect  that  taste  and  judgment 
are  as  much  evinced  in  the  perception  of  beauties  among  defects, 
as  in  a  detection  of  defects  among  beauties.  For  my  part,  I 
honor  the  blessed  and  blessing  spirit  that  is  quick  to  discover 
and  extol  all  that  is  pleasing  and  meritorious.  Give  me  the 
honest  bee,  that  extracts  honey  from  the  humblest  weed,  but 
save  me  from  the  ingenuity  of  the  spider,  which  traces  its 
venom,  even  in  the  midsc  of  a  flower-garden. 

If  the  mere  fact  of  being  chargeable  with  faults  and  Imper- 
fections is  to  condemn  an  author,  who  is  to  escape?  The  great- 
est writers  of  antiquity  have,  in  this  way,  been  ol)noxious  to 
criticism.  Aristotle  himself  has  been  accused  of  ignonince ; 
Aristophanes  of  impiety  and  buffoonery;  Virgil  of  plagiarism, 
and  a  want  of  invention  ;  Horace  of  obscurity  ;  Cicero  hus  been 
said  to  want  vigor  and  connection,  and  Demosthenes  to  be 
deficient  in  nature,  and  in  purity  of  latiguage.  Yet  these  have 
all  survived  the  censures  of  the  critic,  and  flourished  on  to  a 
glorious  immortality.  Every  now  and  then  the  world  is  startleil 
by  some  new  doctrines  in  matters  of  taste,  some  levelling  attacks 
on  established  creeds  ;  some  sweeping  denunciations  of  wliole 
generations,  or  schools  of  writers,  as  they  are  called,  who  iiad 
seemed  to  be  embalmed  and  canonized  in  pul)lic  opinion.  Sncli 
has  been  the  case,  for  instance,  with  Pope,  and  I)ry<len,  and 
Addison,  who  for  a  time  have  almost  been  shaken  from  their 
pedestals,  and  treated  as  false  idols. 

It  is  singular,  also,  to  see  the  fickleness  of  the  world  with 
respect  to  its  favorites.  Enthusiasm  exhausts  itself,  and  pre- 
pares the  way  for  dislike.  The  public  is  always  for  positive 
sentiments,  and  new  senr-ations.  When  wearied  of  admiring,  it 
delights  to  censure  ;  thus  coining  a  double  set  of  enjoyments  out 
of  the  same  subject.  Scott  an<l  Hyron  are  scarce  cold  in  tiuir 
graves,  and  already  we  find  criticism  beginning  to  call  in  (pies- 


I'll  it 


ES. 


SPANISH  ROMANCE. 


75 


Irnsplf,  and 
liavo  more 
t'l-  ji  person 
t  litis  good 
idcrs,  must 
•  words,  in- 
cITect,  and 
suffer  liim- 
kvn  feelin<2;s, 

itlior  111!  llMS 

but  it  is 
excited  iiis 
1  judgment 
>ng  defects, 
my  part,  I 
to  discover 
live  me  the 
t  weed,  but 
1  traces  its 

and  iniper- 

Tlic  greut- 
bnoxious  to 

ignorance  ; 

plagiarism, 
TO  hiiS  been 
lienes  to  be 
,  these  have 
hed  on  to  a 
d  is  startlecl 
lling  attacks 
us  of  whole 
k1,  who  had 
iiion.  Sucii 
)rydcn,  and 
1  from  their 

world  with 
If,  and  jire- 
for  positive 
admiring,  it 
oyinents  out 
cold  in  tlieir 
euU  in  (^ues' 


tion  those  powers  which  held  the  world  in  magic  thraldom. 
Even  in  our  own  country,  one  of  its  greatest  geniuses  has  had 
some  rough  passages  with  the  censors  of  the  press ;  and  in- 
stantly criticism  begins  to  unsay  all  that  it  had  repeatedly  said 
in  his  praise  ;  and  the  public  are  almost  led  to  believe  that  the 
pen  which  has  so  often  delighted  them,  is  absolutely  destitute 
of  the  power  to  delight ! 

If,  then,  such  reverses  in  opinion  as  to  matters  of  taste  can 
be  so  readily  brought  about,  when  may  an  author  feel  himself 
secure?  Where  is  the  anchoring-ground  of  popularity,  when 
he  may  thus  be  driven  from  his  moorings,  and  foundered  ever 
in  harbor?  The  reader,  too,  when  he  is  to  consider  him^eif 
safe  in  admiring,  when  he  sees  long-established  altars  over- 
thrown, and  his  household  deities  dashed  to  the  ground! 

There  is  one  consolatory  reflection.  Every  abuse  carries  with 
it  its  own  remedy  or  palliation.  Thus  the  excess  of  crude  and 
hasty  criticism,  which  has  of  late  prevailed  throughout  the 
literary  world,  and  threatened  to  overrun  our  country,  begins 
to  produce  its  own  antidote.  Where  there  is  a  multiplicity  ot 
contradictory  paths,  a  man  must  make  his  choice  ;  in  so  doing, 
he  has  to  exercise  his  judgment,  and  that  is  one  great  step  to 
mental  independence.  lie  begins  to  doubt  all,  where  all  differ, 
and  but  one  can  be  in  the  right.  He  is  driven  to  trust  to  his 
own  discernment,  and  his  natural  feelings ;  and  here  he  is  most 
likely  to  be  safe.  The  author,  too,  finding  that  what  is  con- 
demned at  one  tribunal,  is  applauded  at  another,  though  per- 
plexed for  a  time,  gives  way  at  length  to  the  spontaneous 
impulse  of  his  genius,  and  the  dictates  of  his  taste,  and  writes 
in  the  way  most  natural  to  himself.  It  is  thus  that  criticism, 
which  l>y  its  severity  may  have  held  the  little  world  of  writers 
in  check,  may,  l)y  its  very  excess,  disarm  itself  of  its  terrors, 
and  the  hardihood  of  talent  become  restored. 

G.  C. 


SPANISH  ROMANCE. 

To  THE  Editor  of  the  Knickerbocker. 

Sir :  I  have  already  given  you  a  legend  or  two  drawn  from 
ancient  Spanish  sources,  and  may  occasionally  give  you  a  few 
more.  I  love  these  old  Spanish  themes,  especially  when  they 
have  a  dash  of  the  Morisco  in  them,  and  treat  of  the  times 


76 


WOLFEIiTS    liOOST   AND    MISCELLANIES. 


I'l ' ; 


when  the  Moslems  maintained  a  foothold  in  the  peninsula. 
They  have  a  high,  spicy,  oriental  flavor,  not  to  be  found  in  any 
other  themes  that  are  merely  European.  In  fact,  Spain  is  a 
country  that  stands  alone  in  the  midst  of  Europe  ;  severed  in 
habits,  manners,  and  modes  of  thinking,  from  all  its  continental 
neighbors.  It  is  a  romantic  country  ;  but  its  romance  has  none 
of  the  sentimentality  of  modern  European  romance  ;  it  is  chiiMlv 
derived  from  the  l)rilliant  regions  of  the  East,  and  from  ihu 
high-minded  school  of  Saracenic  chivalry. 

The  Arab  invasion  and  conquest  brought  a  higher  civilization 
and  a  nobler  stvlo  of  thinking  into  Gothic  Spain.  The  Arabs 
were  a  quick-witted,  s;iga''ious,  proud-spirited,  and  poetical 
people,  and  were  imbiu  cl  with  oriental  science  and  literature. 
Wherever  they  established  a  seat  of  power,  it  became  a  rallying 
place  for  the  learned  and  ingenious  ;  and  they  softened  and 
refined  the  people  whom  they  conquered.  By  degrees,  occu- 
pancy seemed  to  give  them  a  hereditary  right  to  their  foothold 
in  the  land ;  they  ceased  to  be  looked  upon  as  invaders,  and 
were  regarded  as  rival  neighbors.  The  peninsula,  broken  up 
into  a  variety  of  stales,  both  Christian  an(l  Moslem,  became  for 
centuries  a  great  campaigning  ground,  where  the  art  of  war 
seemed  to  be  the  principal  business  oif  man,  and  was  carried  to 
the  highest  pitch  of  romantic  chivalry.  The  original  ground 
of  hostility,  a  difference  of  faith,  gradually  lost  its  rancor. 
Neighboring  states,  of  opposite  creeds,  were  occasionally  linked 
together  in  alliances,  offensive  and  defensive ;  so  that  the  cross 
and  crescent  were  to  be  seen  side  by  side  fighting  against  some 
common  enemy.  In  times  of  peace,  too,  the  noble  3'outh  of 
either  faith  resorted  to  the  same  cities.  Christian  or  Moslem,  tc 
school  themselves  in  military  science.  Even  in  the  temporary 
truces  of  sanguinary  wars,  the  warriors  who  had  recently  striven 
together  in  the  deadly  conflicts  of  the  field,  laid  aside  their  ani- 
mosity, met  at  tournaments,  jousts,  and  other  military  festivi- 
ties, and  exchanged  the  courtesies  of  gentle  and  generouH 
spirits.  Thus  the  opposite  races  became  fre<iuently  mingled 
together  in  peaceful  intercourse,  or  if  any  rivalry  took  place,  it 
was  in  those  high  courtesies  and  nobler  acts  which  bespeak  tiie 
accomplished  cavalier.  Warriors  of  opposite  creeds  became 
ambitious  of  transcending  each  other  in  magnanimity  as  well  as 
valor.  Indeed,  the  chivalric  virtues  were  refined  upon  to  a  de- 
gree sometimes  fastidious  and  constrained  ;  but  at  other  times, 
inexpressibly  noble  and  affecting.  The  annals  of  the  times 
teem  with  illustrious  instances  of  high-wrought  courtesy,  roman- 
tic generosity,  lofty  disinterestedness,  and  punctilious   honor, 


ES, 

peninsula, 
and  in  any 
Spain  is  a 

severed  in 
continental 
;e  has  nom; 
it  is  eljii'lly 
X  from  lliu 

civilization 
The  Aral)s 
1(1  poetical 
[  literature, 
e  a  rallying 
iftened  and 
;rees,  occu- 
eir  footljold 
r'aders,  and 
broken  up 
became  for 
art  of  war 
3  carried  to 
inal  ground 
its  rancor, 
lally  linked 
it  the  cross 
[ainst  some 
e  youth  of 
Moslem,  to 

teniporary 
ntly  strivi'U 
e  their  aiii- 
ary  festivi- 
I  generous 
.ly  min<;li'(i 
ok  place,  it 
)espeak  llie 
ids  became 
f  as  well  as 
on  to  a  de- 
(ther  times, 

the  times 
esy,  romau- 
ous   honor, 


SPANISH  ROMANCE. 


n 


that  warm  the  very  soul  to  read  them.     These  have  furnished 
themes  for  national  plays  and  poems,  or  have  been  celebrated  in 
those  all-pervading  ballads  which  are  as  the  life-breath  cf  the 
people,  and  thus  have  continued  to  exercise  an  influence  on 
the  national  character  which  centuries  of  vicissitude  and  declino 
have  not  been  able  to  destroy ;  so  that,  with  all  their  faults, 
and  they  are  many,  the  Spaniards,  even  at  the  present  day,  are 
on  many  points  the  most  high-minded  and  proud-spirited  peo- 
ple of  Europe.     It  is  true,  the  romance  of  feeling  derived  from 
the  sources  I  have  mentioned,  has,  like  all  otiier  romance,  its 
alfectations  and  extremes.     It  renders  the  Spaniard  at  times 
pompous  and  grandiloquent;  prone  to  carry  the  ''  pundonor," 
or  point  of  honor,  beyond  the  bounds  of  sober  sense  and  sound 
morality ;    disposed,   in   the  midst  of  poverty,  to  affect  the 
"  grande  caballero,"  and  to  look  down  with  sovereign  disdain 
upon  "  arts  mechanical,"  and  all  the  gainful  pursuits  of  ple- 
beian life  ;  but  this  very  inflation  of  spirit,  while  it  fills  his  brain 
with   vapors,    lifts   him  above  a   thousand  meannesses;    and 
though  it  often  keeps  him  in  indigence,  ever  protects  him  from 
vulgarity. 

In  the  present  day,  when  popular  literature  is  running  into 
the  low  levels  of  life  and  luxuriating  on  the  vices  and  follies  of 
mankind,  and  when  the  universal  pursuit  of  gain  is  trampling 
down  the  early  growth  of  poetic  feeling  and  wearing  out  the 
verdure  of  the  soul,  I  question  whether  it  would  not  be  of  ser- 
vice for  the  reader  occasionally  to  turn  to  these  records  of 
prouder  times  and  loftier  modes  of  thinking,  and  to  steep  him- 
self to  the  very  lips  in  old  Spanish  romance. 

For  my  own  part,  I  have  a  shelf  or  two  of  venerable,  parch- 
ment-bound tomes,  picked  up  here  and  there  about  the  pen- 
insula, and  filled  with  chronicles,  plays,  and  ballads,  about 
Moors  and  Christians,  which  I  keep  by  me  as  mental  tonics,  in 
the  same  way  that  a  provident  housewife  has  her  cupboard  of 
cordials.  Whenever  I  find  my  mind  brought  below  i>ar  by  the 
commonplace  of  every-day  life,  or  jarred  by  the  sordid  collisions 
of  the  world,  or  put  out  of  tune  by  the  shrewd  selfishness  of 
modern  utilitarianism,  I  resort  to  these  venerable  tomes,  as  did 
the  worthy  hero  of  La  Mancha  to  his  books  of  chivalry,  and  re- 
fresh and  tone  up  my  spirit  by  a  deep  draught  of  their  contents. 
They  have  some  sucli  effect  upon  me  as  Falstaff  ascribes  to  a 
good  Sherris  sack,  ''  warming  the  blood  and  filling  the  brain 
with  :iery  and  delectable  shapes." 

I  here  subjoin,  Mr.  Editor,  a  small  specimen  of  the  cordials  I 
have  mentioned,  just  drawn  from  my  Spanish  cupboard,  which 


>      I 


1 

I 

I 


>i    :' 


U 


T8 


WOLFERT'S  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES 


I  recommend  to  your  palate.     J'  you  find  it  to  your  taste.,  you 
may  pass  it  uu  to  your  readers. 

Your  correspondent  and  well-wislier, 

GEOFFREY  CRAYON. 


V    i 


LEGEND  OF  DON  MUNIO  SANCUO  DE  HINOJOSA. 
BY  THE   AUTHOR  OP  THE  SKETCH-BOOK. 

In  the  cloisters  of  the  ancient  Benedictine  convent  of  San 
Domingo,  at  Silos,  in  Castile,  are  the  mouldering  yet  magnili- 
cent  monuments  of  the  once  powerful  and  chivalrous  family  of 
Hinojosa.  Among  these,  reclines  the  marble  figure  of  a  knight, 
in  complete  armor,  with  the  hands  pressed  together,  as  if  in 
prayer.  On  one  side  of  his  tomb  is  sculptured  in  relief  a  b:uui 
of  Christian  cavaliers,  capturing  a  cavalcade  of  male  and  feinule 
Moors ;  on  the  other  side,  the  same  cavaliers  are  rcpiesenli'd 
kneeling  before  an  altar.  The  tomb,  like  most  of  the  neighbor- 
ing monuments,  is  almost  in  ruins,  and  the  sculpture  is  nearly 
unintelligible,  excepting  to  the  keen  eye  of  the  antiquary.  Tlu; 
story  connected  with  the  sepulchre,  however,  is  still  preserved 
in  the  old  Spanish  chronicles,  and  is  to  the  following  purport. 


•! 


I) 


i  -  ■ 


In  olden  times,  several  hundred  years  ago,  there  was  a  noble 
Castilian  cavalier,  named  Don  Munio  Sancho  de  Hinojosa,  lord 
of  a  border  rastle,  which  had  stood  the  brunt  of  many  a  Moor- 
ish foray,  i^e  had  seventy  horsemen  as  his  household  troops, 
all  of  the  ancient  Castilian  proof ;  stark  warriors,  hard  riders, 
and  men  of  iron  ;  with  these  he  scoured  the  Moorish  lands,  ami 
made  his  name  terrible  throughout  the  borders.  His  castle 
hall  was  covered  with  banners,  and  cimeters,  and  Moslem 
helms,  the  trophies  of  his  prowess.  Don  Munio  was,  moreover, 
a  keen  huntsman ;  and  rejoiced  in  hounds  of  all  kinds,  steeds 
for  the  chase,  and  hawks  for  the  towering  sport  of  falconry. 
When  uot  engaged  in  warfare,  his  delight  was  to  beat  up  the 
neig'iboring  forests ;  and  scarcely  ever  did  he  ride  forth,  with- 
out hound  and  horn,  a  boar-spear  in  his  hand,  or  a  hawk  upon 
his  fist,  and  an  attendant  train  of  huntsmeu. 

His  wife,  Donna  Maria  Palacin,  was  of  a  gentle  and  timid  na- 
ture, little  fitted  to  be  the  spouse  of  so  hardy  and  adventurons 
%  knight ;  and  many  a  tear  did  the  poor  lady  shed,  when  he 


SPANISH  liOMANCK. 


79 


r  taste.,  you 

aher, 

Y  CRAYON. 


OJOSA. 


-ent  of  San 
I't't  ma<riiiii. 
ii.s  family  of 
of  a  kni<,'lit, 
er,  as  if  in 
lief  a  l)uiitl 
aud  female 
rcproseiiti'd 
le  neighhor- 
ire  is  nearly 
uary.  Tlu; 
1  preserved 
;  purport. 


was  a  noble 
nojosa, lord 
ny  a  Moor- 
lold  troops, 
mrd  riders, 
lands,  aud 
His   castle 
id   Moslem 
,  moreover, 
nds,  steeds 
if  falconry, 
eat  up  the 
'orth,  with- 
liawk  upon 

I  timid  na- 
Jventuroiis 
,  wheu  lie 


Ballied  forth  upon  his  daring  enterprises,  and  many  a  prayer  did 
she  offer  up  for  his  safety. 

As  this  doughty  cavalier  was  one  da^  hunting,  he  stationed 
himself  in  a  thicket,  on  the  borders  of  a  green  glade  of  the  for- 
est, and  dispersed  his  followers  to  rouse  the  game,  and  drive  it 
toward  his  stand.  He  had  not  been  here  long,  when  a  caval- 
cade  of  Moors,  of  both  sexes,  came  prankling  over  the  forest 
lawn.  They  were  unarmed,  and  magnificently  dressed  in  rolies 
of  tissue  and  embroidery,  rich  shawls  of  India,  bracelets  and 
anklets  of  gold,  and  jewels  that  sparkled  in  the  sun. 

At  the  head  of  this  gay  cavalcade,  rode  a  youthful  cavalier, 
superior  to  the  rest  in  dignity  and  loftiness  of  demeanor,  and  iu 
splendor  of  attire  ;  beside  him  was  a  damsel,  whose  veil,  blown 
aside  by  the  breeze,  displayed  a  face  of  surpassing  beauty,  and 
eyes  cast  down  in  maiden  modesty,  yet  beaming  with  tenderness 
and  joy. 

Don  Munio  thanked  his  stars  for  sending  him  such  a  prize, 
and  exulted  at  the  thought  of  bearing  home  to  his  wife  the  glit- 
tering spoils  of  these  infidels.  Putting  his  hunting-horn  to  his 
lips,  he  gave  a  blast  that  rung  through  the  forest.  His  hunts- 
men came  running  from  all  quarters,  and  the  astonished  Moors 
were  surrounded  and  made  captives. 

The  beautiful  Moor  rung  her  hands  in  despair,  and  her  female 
attendants  uttered  the  most  piercing  cries.  The  young  Moor- 
ish cavalier  aloue  retained  self-possession.  He  inquired  the 
name  of  the  Christian  knight  who  commanded  this  troop  of 
horsemen.  When  told  it  was  Don  Munio  Sancho  de  Hinojosa, 
his  countenance  ligt  led  up.  Approaching  that  cavalier,  and 
kissing  his  hand,  "Don  Munio  Sancho,"  said  he,  "I  have 
heard  of  your  fame  as  a  true  and  valiant  knight,  terrible  in 
arms,  but  schooled  in  tho  noble  virtues  of  chivalry.  Such  do  I 
trust  to  find  you.  In  me  you  behold  Abadil,  son  of  a  Moorish 
Alcayde.  I  am  on  the  "way  to  celebrate  my  nuptials  with  this 
lady ;  chance  has  thrown  us  in  your  power,  but  I  confide  in 
your  magnanimity.  Take  all  our  treasure  and  jewels  ;  demand 
what  ransom  you  think  proper  for  our  persons,  but  suffer  us  not 
to  be  insulted  or  dishonored." 

When  the  good  knight  heard  this  appeal,  and  beheld  the 
beauty  of  the  youthful  pair,  his  heart  was  touched  with  tender- 
ness and  courtesy.  "  God  forbid,"  said  he,  '^'  that  I  should 
disturb  such  happy  nuptials.  My  prisoners  in  troth  shall  ye  be, 
for  fifteen  days,  and  immured  within  my  castle,  where  I  claim, 
as  conqueror,  the  right  of  celel)ratin;jf  your  espousals." 

So  saying,  he  despatched  one  of  his  fleetest  horsemen  in  ad. 


i 


i 


19, 

I 


\  i 


80 


WOLFBRT.'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


■I 


I  u 


1^' 


I  -1 


SiiiU: 


'  ^    i  ^e 


vance,  to  notify  Donna  Maria  Palacin  of  the  coming  of  this 
bridal  party  ;  while  he  and  his  huntsmen  escorted  the  cavalcade, 
not  as  captors,  but  as  a  guard  of  honor.  As  they  drew  near 
to  the  castle,  the  banners  were  hung  out,  and  the  trumpets 
sounded  from  the  battlements ;  and  ^a  their  nearer  approach, 
the  draw-bridge  was  lowered,  and  Donna  Maria  came  forth  to 
meet  them,  attended  by  her  ladies  and  knights,  her  pages  and 
her  minstrels.  She  took  the  young  bride,  Allifra,  in  her  arms, 
kissed  her  with  the  tenderness  of  a  sister,  and  conducted  her 
into  the  castle.  In  the  mean  time,  Don  Munio  sent  forth  mis- 
sives in  every  direction,  and  had  viands  and  dainties  of  all  kinds 
collected  from  the  country  round  ;  and  the  wedding  of  the  Moor- 
ish lovers  was  celebrated  with  all  possible  state  and  festivity. 
For  fifteen  days,  the  castle  was  given  up  to  joy  and  revelry. 
There  were  tiltings  and  jousts  at  the  ring,  and  bull-fights,  and 
banquets,  and  dances  to  the  sound  of  minstrelsy.  When  the 
fifteen  days  were  at  an  end,  he  made  the  bride  and  bridegroom 
magnificent  presents,  and  conducted  them  and  their  attendants 
safely  beyond  the  borders.  Such,  in  old  times,  were  the  cour- 
tesy and  generosity  of  a  Spanish  cavalier. 

Several  years  after  this  event,  the  King  of  Castile  summoned 
his  nobles  to  assist  him  in  a  campaign  against  the  Moors.  Don 
Munio  Sancho  was  among  the  first  to  answer  to  the  call,  with 
seventy  horsemen,  all  stanch  and  well-tried  warriors.  His 
wife,  Donna  Maria,  hung  about  his  neck.  "  Alas,  my  lord  !  " 
exclaimed  she,  "  how  often  wilt  thou  tempt  thy  fate,  and  when 
will  thy  thirst  for  glory  be  appeased  !  " 

"  One  battle  more,"  replied  Don  Munio,  "  one  battle  more,  for 
the  honor  of  Castile,  and  I  here  make  a  vow,  that  when  this  is 
over,  I  will  lay  by  my  sword,  and  repair  with  my  cavaliers  in 
pilgrimage  to  the  sepulchre  of  our  Lord  at  Jerusalem."  The 
cavaliers  all  joined  witli  him  in  the  vow,  and  Donna  Maria  felt 
in  some  degree  soothed  in  spirit :  still,  she  saw  with  a  heavy 
heart  the  departure  of  her  husband,  and  watched  his  banner 
with  wistful  eyes,  until  it  disappeared  among  the  trees  of  the 
forest. 

The  King  of  Castile  led  his  army  to  the  plains  of  Almanara, 
where  they  encountered  the  Moorish  host,  near  to  Udea.  The 
battle  was  long  and  bloody  ;  the  (Muistians  repeatedly  wavered, 
and  were  as  often  rallied  ])y  the  energy  of  their  commanders. 
Don  Munio  was  covered  with  wounds,  but  refused  to  leave  the 
field.  The  Christians  at  length  gave  way,  and  the  king  was 
hardly  pressed,  and  in  danger  of  being  captured. 

Don  Munio  called  upon  his  cavaliers  to  follow  him  to  the 


ES. 

ng  of  this 
cavalcade, 
drew  near 
e  trumpets 
'  approach, 
me  forth  to 
pages  and 
1  her  arms, 
ducted  her 
forth  mis- 
of  all  kinds 
f  the  Moor- 
d  festivity. 
nd  revelry, 
-fights,  and 
When  the 
bridegroom 
attendants 
e  the  cour- 

summoned 
3ors.  Don 
e  call,  with 
riors.  His 
my  lord  ! ' ' 
,  and  when 

e  more,  for 
heu  this  is 
avaliers  in 
!m."  The 
Mnria  felt 
h  a  heavy 
his  banner 
ees  of  the 

Almanara, 
I'les.  Tlie 
r  wavered, 
Qmanders. 
leave  the 
king  was 

im  to  the 


SPA^riSH  ROMANCE. 


81 


rescue.  "  Now  is  the  time,"  cried  he,  "  to  prove  your  loyalty. 
Fall  to,  like  brave  men !  We  fight  for  the  true  faith,  and  if  we 
lose  our  lives  here,  we  gain  a  better  life  hereafter." 

Rushing  with  his  men  between  the  king  and  his  pursuers,  they 
checked  the  latter  in  their  career,  and  gave  time  for  their  mon- 
arch to  escape ;  but  they  fell  victims  to  their  loyalty.  Th(>y 
all  fought  to  the  last  gasp.  Don  Munio  was  singled  out  by  a 
powerful  Moorish  knight,  but  having  been  wounded  in  the  riglit 
arm,  he  fought  to  disadvantage,  and  was  slain.  The  battle- 
being  over,  the  Moor  paused  to  possess  himself  of  the  spoils 
of  this  redoubtable  Christian  warrior.  When  he  unlaced  the 
helmet,  however,  and  beheld  the  countenance  of  Don  Munio. 
he  gave  a  great  cry,  and  smote  his  breast.  "Woe  is  me!  " 
cried  he  ;  "I  have  slain  my  benefactor !  The  flower  of  knightly 
virtue  !  the  most  magnanimous  of  cavaliers !  " 


While  the  battle  had  been  raging  on  the  plain  of  Salmanara, 
Donna  Maria  Palacin  remained  in  her  castle,  a  prey  to  the 
keenest  anxiety.  Her  eyes  were  ever  fixed  on  the  road  that 
led  from  the  country  of  the  Moors,  and  often  she  asked  the 
watchman  of  the  tower,  "  What  seest  thou?" 

One  evening,  at  the  shadowy  hour  of  twilight,  the  warden 
sounded  his  horn.  "  I  see,"  cried  he,  "  a  numerous  train  wind- 
ing up  the  valley.  There  are  mingled  Moors  and  Christians. 
The  banner  of  my  lord  is  in  the  advance.  Joyful  tidings !  "  ex- 
claimed the  old  seneschal :  "  My  lord  returns  in  triumph,  and 
brings  captives!  "  Then  the  castle  courts  rang  with  shouts  of 
joy ;  and  the  standard  was  displayed,  and  the  trumpets  were 
Bounded,  and  the  draw-bridge  was  lowered,  and  Donna  Maria 
went  forth  with  her  ladies,  and  her  knights,  and  her  pages,  and 
her  minstrels,  to  welcome  her  lord  from  the  wars.  But  as 
the  train  drew  nigh,  she  beheld  a  sumptuous  bier,  covered  with 
black  velvet,  and  on  it  lay  a  warrior,  as  if  taking  his  repose : 
he  lay  in  his  armor,  with  his  helmet  on  his  head,  and  his  sword 
in  his  hand,  as  one  who  had  never  been  conquered,  and  around 
the  bier  were  the  escutcheons  of  the  house  of  Hinojosa. 

A  number  of  Moorisli  cavaliers  attended  the  bier,  with  em- 
blems of  mourning,  and  with  dejected  countenances :  and  their 
leader  cast  himself  at  the  feet  of  Donna  Maria,  and  hid  his  face 
in  his  hands.  She  beheld  in  him  the  gallant  Abadil,  whom  she 
had  once  welcomed  with  his  bride  to  her  castle,  but  who  now 
came  with  the  body  of  her  lord,  whom  he  had  unknowingly 
slain  in  battle ! 


bii 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


\     s 


The  sepulchre  erected  in  the  cloisters  of  the  Convent  of  San 
Domingo  was  achieved  at  the  expenr-e  of  the  Moor  Al)a(lil.  as 
a  feeble  testimony  of  his  grief  for  the  death  of  the  good  kni<,r'it 
Don  Munio,  and  his  reverence  for  his  memory.  The  tender 
and  faithful  Donna  Maria  soon  followed  her  lord  to  the  tomh. 
On  one  cf  the  stones  of  a  small  arch,  beside  his  sepuleiire,  is 
the  following  simple  inscription:  '•^  Hie  jacet  Maria  Palariti, 
uxor  3funonis  Sancij  de  Finojosa:"  Here  lies  Maria  Palucin, 
wife  of  Munio  Sancho  de  Hinojosa. 

The  legend  of  Don  Munio  Sancho  does  not  conclude  with  his 
death.  On  the  same  day  on  which  the  battle  took  place  on  i\w 
plain  of  Salmanara,  a  chaplain  of  the  Holy  Temple  at  Jerusa- 
lem, while  standing  at  the  outer  gate,  beheld  a  train  of  Cluis- 
tian  cavaliers  advancing,  as  if  in  pilgrimage.  The  chaphiin 
was  a  native  of  Spain,  and  as  tlie  pilgrims  approaciied,  lu; 
know  the  foremost  to  be  Don  Munio  Sanclio  do  Ilinojosa,  with 
whom  he  had  been  well  acquainted  in  former  times.  Haston- 
ing  to  the  patriarch,  he  told  him  of  the  honoral)le  rank  of  tlic 
pilgrims  at  the  gate.  The  patriarch,  therefore,  went  forth  with 
a  grand  procession  of  priests  and  monks,  and  received  the 
pilgrims  with  all  due  honor.  There  were  seventy  cavaliers, 
l)eside  their  leader,  all  stark  and  lofty  warriors.  Tliey  ctirriod 
their  helmets  in  tbeir  hands,  and  their  faces  were  deadly  pale. 
They  greeted  no  one,  nor  looked  eitlicr  to  the  right  or  to  the 
left,  but  entered  the  chapel,  and  kneeling  before  the  Sopulclue 
of  our  Saviour,  performed  their  orisons  in  silence.  V»'heii  tlicy 
had  concluded,  they  rose  as  if  lo  depart,  and  the  patri  'rcli  and 
his  attendants  advanced  to  speak  to  them,  but  they  .v'oro  no 
more  to  l)e  seen.  Every  one  marvelled  what  could  bo  the 
meaning  of  this  prodigy.  The  patriarch  carefully  noted  down 
the  day,  and  sent  to  C'astile  to  learn  tidings  of  Don  Munio  San- 
cho de  Hinojosa.  He  received  for  reply,  t'at  on  the  very  day 
speciQed,  that  worthy  knight,  with  seventy  of  his  followers,  Isad 
been  slain  in  battle.  These,  therefore,  must  have  been  the 
blessed  spirits  of  those  Christian  warriors,  come  to  fulfil  their 
vov  of  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Holy  Sepulchre  at  Jerusalem.  Such 
was  Castilian  faith,  in  the  olden  time,  which  kept  its  wonl, 
even  beyond  the  grave. 

If  any  one  should  doul)t  of  tlie  miraculous  apparition  of 
these  phantom  knights,  let  him  consult  the  History  of  the 
Kings  of  Castile  and  Leon,  by  the  learned  and  pious  Fray  1*111- 
dencio  de  Sandoval,  Bishop  of  Pamplona,  where  ho  will  Ihid 
it  recorded  in  the  History  of  the  King  Don  Alonzo  VI.,  on  the 
hundred  and  second  page.  It  is  too  precious  a  legend  to  lie 
lightly  abandoned  to  the  doubter. 


i     , 

.  I  ft 

1 

m 

1 

l^:< 

lES. 


vent  of  San 
r  Ahadil,  as 
good  knijr'it 

riie  tender 
o  the  tonil). 
sepulclire,  is 
ria  Palachi, 

•ia  Pulucin, 


ir 


ude  with  his 
ilace  on  th(? 
2  at  JorusH- 
in   of  Chris- 
le   chjipliiin 
'o.'ichcd,   he 
nojosa,  witli 
's.     Ila.stcii- 
rank  of  ili(> 
It  forth  with 
veeived   tiio 
y  cavaliers, 
They  carried 
deadly  palp. 
It  or  to  the 
e  Sepulchi'e 
VtHien  they 
itrj.'rch  and 
ley  .fcrc  no 
»uld    he    the 
noted  down 
i\Innio  San- 
le  very  day 
lowers,  Lad 
e   been   the 
fullil  their 
lem.     Such 
;  its  word, 

|)aritiou  of 
)ry  of  the 
Fray  Prn- 
e  will  lind 
'^I.,  on  the 
eud  to  he 


COMMUNIPAW.  83 


COMMUNIPAW. 

To  THE  Editor  of  tiik  Kniokeubocker. 

Sir :  I  ol)serve,  with  pleasure,  that  you  are  performing  from 
time  to  time  a  pious  duty,  imposed  upon  you,  I  may  say,  by 
tiie  name  you  have  adopted  as  your  tituhir  standard,  in  follow- 
iii<r  in  the  footsteps  of  the  venerable  Knickeruockek,  and 
jzleaning  every  fact  concerning  the  ,.ly  times  of  the  Manhat- 
toes  which  may  have  escaped  liis  hand.  I  trust,  therefore,  a 
few  particulars,  legendary  and  statistical,  concerning  a  place 
which  figures  conspicuously  in  the  early  pages  of  his  history, 
will  not  be  unacceptable.  I  allude.  Sir,  to  the  ancient  and 
renowned  village  of  Communipaw,  which,  according  to  the 
veracious  Diedrich,  and  to  equally  veracious  tradition,  was  the 
tirst  spot  where  our  ever-to-be-lamented  Dutch  progenitors 
planted  their  standard  and  cast  the  seeds  of  empire,  and  from 
whence  subsequently  sailed  the  memorable  expedition  under 
Oloffe  the  Dreamer,  which  landed  on  the  opposite  island  of 
Manhatta,  and  founded  the  present  city  of  New  York,  the  city 
of  dreams  and  speculations. 

Coinmuni|)aw,  therefore,  may  truly  be  called  the  parent  of  New 
York  ;  yet  it  is  an  astonishing  fact,  that  though  immediately 
opposite  to  the  great  city  it  has  produced,  from  whence  its  red 
roofs  and  tin  weather-cocks  can  actually  be  descried  peering 
above  the  surrounding  apple  orchards,  it  should  be  almost  as 
rarely  visited,  and  as  little  known  by  the  inhabitants  of  the 
metropolis,  as  if  it  had  been  locked  up  among  the  Rocky  Moun- 
tains. Sir,  I  think  there  is  something  unnatural  in  this,  espe- 
cially in  these  times  of  ramble  and  research,  when  our  citizens 
are  anti(piity-hunling  in  every  part  of  the  world.  Curiosity, 
like  (jharity,  should  l)egin  at  home  ;  and  I  would  enjoin  it  on 
our  worthy  burglu'rs,  especially  those  of  the  real  Knickerbocker 
I  need,  before  tlicy  send  their  sons  abroad  to  wonder  and  grow 
wise  among  the  remains  of  Greece  and  Rome,  to  let  them  make 
a  tour  of  ancient  Pavonia,  from  Weehawk  even  to  the  Kills, 
and  nieilitate,  with  filial  reverence,  on  the  moss-grown  mansions 
of  Communipaw. 

Sir,  1  regard  this  much- neglected  village  as  one  of  the  most 
ri'inarkable  places  in  the  country.  The  intelligent  traveller, 
as  he  looks  down  upon  it  from  the  Bergen  Heights,  modestly 
lu'stled  among  its  cabbage-gardens,  while  the  great  flaunting 
city  it  has  begotten  is  stretching  far  aud  wide  ou  the  opposite 


)BM  ; 


84 


WOLFEBT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


■l! 


side  of  the  bay,  the  intelligent  traveller,  I  say,  will  be  filled  with 
astonishment ;  not.  Sir,  at  the  village  of  Coramunipaw,  which 
in  truth  is  a  very  small  village,  but  at  the  almost  iuereiliblo 
fact  that  so  small  a  village  should  have  produced  so  groat  a 
city.  It  looks  to  him,  indeed,  like  some  squat  little  damn, 
with  a  tall  grenadier  of  a  son  strutting  by  her  side  ;  or  some 
simple-hearted  hen  that  has  uuvvittiugly  hatched  out  a  lon^- 
legged  turkey. 

But  this  is  not  all  for  which  Cummunipaw  is  remarkable. 
Sir,  it  is  interesting  on  another  account.  It  is  to  the  ancien; 
province  of  the  New  Netherlands  and  the  classic  era  of  tlr.' 
Dutch  dynasty,  what  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii  are  to  an- 
cient Rome  and  the  glorious  days  of  the  empire.  Here  every 
thing  remains  in  statu  quo,  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  Oluffe  the 
Dreamer,  Walter  the  Doubter,  and  the  other  worthies  of  tlio 
golden  age  ;  the  same  broad-brimmed  hats  and  broad-botioni-'d 
breeches ;  the  same  knee-buckles  and  shoe-buckles ;  the  same 
close-quilled  caps  and  linsey-woolsey  short-gowns  and  petti- 
coats ;  the  same  implements  and  utensils  and  forms  and  fasli- 
ious ;  in  a  word,  Coramunipaw  at  the  present  day  is  a  picture 
of  what  New  Amsterdam  was  befo' :  ^^  conquest.  The '' in- 
telligent traveller"  afores-jid,  as  !■  r.  m  .  its  streets,  is  struek 
with  the  primitive  character  of  evry  t.iing  around  him.  In- 
stead of  Grecian  temples  for  dwelling-houses,  with  a  grout 
column  of  pine  boards  in  the  way  of  every  window,  he  beholds 
high  peaked  roofs,  gable  ends  to  the  street,  with  weather-cooks 
at  top,  and  windows  of  all  sorts  and  sizes  ;  large  ones  for  tlie 
grown-up  members  of  the  family,  and  little  ones  for  the  little 
folk.  Instead  of  cold  marble  porches,  with  close-lockod  doois 
and  brass  knockers,  he  sees  the  doors  hospitably  open  ;  tli  • 
worthy  burgher  smoking  his  pipe  on  the  old-fashioned  st()o[i 
in  front,  with  his  "  vrouw  "  knitting  beside  him;  and  the  oiit 
and  her  kittens  at  their  feet  sleeping  in  the  sunshine. 

Astonished  at  the  obsolete  and  "'  old  world  "  air  of  every  tiling 
iiroand  h'm,  the  intelligent  traveller  demands  how  all  this  has 
forae  to  pass.  Herculaneum  and  Pompeii  remain,  it  is  true, 
uP'xfT'^oted  by  the  varyiig  fashions  of  centuries  ;  but  they  wore 
bi  riod  by  a  volcano  v.\k\  preserved  in  ashes.  What  channeil 
spcVi  hns  kopc  this  wonderful  little  place  unonanged,  though  in 
sieht  of  the  most  changeful  city  in  the  universe?  Has  it,  too, 
beta  bured  under  its  cabbage-gardens,  and  only  dug  out  in 
mofi'  li!  Ua,ys  for  the  wonder  and  edification  of  the  world?  Tlio 
TCT-ny  involves  a  point  of  history,  worthy  of  notice  and  record, 
and  ri^lieutiug  immortal  honor  on  Commuuipaw. 


lES. 

>e  filled  with 
ipaw,  which 
t  inerediblo 
so  great  a 
little  danio, 
e ;  or  some 
out  a  lon<>- 

•eraarkablo. 
the  ancieijt: 
era  of  tii- 
are  to  an- 
il ore  every 

r  ok'.ffv  tiu" 

hies  of  tho 
(-l-botioiii"() 

tho  same 

and    peLli- 

5  and  fash- 

s  a  pietuic 

The  '"'  in- 
3,  is  atriK'k 
him.  In- 
th  a  great 
he  beiiolds 
ither-cocks 
nes  for  tlie 
r  the  little 
eked  doois 
open  ;  lli  • 
)ned  stoop 
nd  the  cm 

H-ery  thing 

11  this  has 

it  is  true, 

they  were 

t  ehaniii'(l 

though  ii. 

Fas  it,  too, 

lug  out  ill 

rid  ?     The 

nd  record, 


COMMUNIPAW. 


m 


At  the  time  when  New  Amsterdam  was  invaded  and  feon- 
quered  by  British  foes,  as  has  been  related  in  the  history  of  the 
venerable  Diedrich,  a  great  dispersion  took  plaee  among  the 
Dutch  inhabitants.  Many,  like  the  illustrious  Peter  Stuyve- 
sant,  buried  themselves  in  rural  retreats  in  the  Bowerie ;  others, 
like  Wolfert  Acker,  took  refuge  in  various  remote  parts  of  the 
Hudson  ;  but  there  was  one  stanch,  unconquerable  band  that 
determined  to  keep  together,  and  preserve  themselves,  like 
seed  corn,  for  the  future  fructification  and  perpetuity  of  the 
Knickerbocker  race.  These  were  headed  by  one  Garret  Van 
Home,  a  gigantic  Dutchman,  the  Pelayo  of  the  New  Nether- 
lands. Under  his  guidance,  they  retreated  across  the  bay  and 
buried  themselves  among  the  marshes  of  ancient  Pavonia,  as 
did  the  followers  of  Pelayo  among  the  mountains  of  Asturias, 
when  Spain  was  overrun  by  its  Arabian  invaders. 

The  gallant  Van  Ilorne  set  up  his  standard  at  Communipaw, 
and  invited  all  those  to  rally  under  it,  who  were  true  Neder- 
landers  at  heart,  and  determined  to  resist  all  foreign  intermix- 
ture or  encroachment.  A  strict  non-intercourse  was  observed 
with  the  captured  city ;  not  a  boat  ever  crossed  to  it  from 
Communipaw,  and  the  English  language  was  rigorously  tabooed 
throughout  the  village  and  its  dependencies.  Every  man  was 
sworn  to  wear  his  hat,  cut  his  coat,  build  his  house,  and  har- 
ness his  horses,  exactly  as  his  father  had  done  before  lum  ;  and 
to  permit  nothing  but  the  Dutch  language  to  be  spoken  in  his 
household. 

As  a  citadel  of  the  place,  and  a  stronghold  for  the  preserva- 
tion and  defence  of  every  thing  Dutch,  the  gallant  Van  Home 
erected  a  lordly  mansion,  with  a  chimney  perched  at  every 
corner,  which  thence  derived  the  aristocratical  name  of  "The 
House  of  the  Four  Chimneys."  Hithcn-  he  transferred  many  of 
the  precious  relics  of  New  Amsteidam  ;  the  great  round-crowned 
hat  that  once  covered  the  capacious  head  of  Walter  the  Doubter, 
and  the  identical  shoe  with  which  Peter  the  Headstrong  kicked 
his  pusillanimous  councillors  down-stairs.  St.  Nicholas,  it  is 
said,  took  this  loyal  house  under  his  especial  protection  ;  and  a 
Dutch  soothsayer  predicted,  that  as  long  as  it  should  stand, 
Communipaw  would  be  safe  from  the  intrusion  either  of  Briton 
or  Yankee. 

In  this  house  would  the  gallant  Van  Home  and  his  compeers 
hold  frecpient  councils  of  war,  as  to  the  possibility  of  re-conquer- 
ing the  province  from  the  British;  and  here  would  they  sit 
for  hours,  nay,  days,  together  smoking  their  pipes  and  keeping 
watch  upon  the  growing  city  of  New  York;  groauiu5  in  spirit 


.1 


I 


«  • 


86 


WOLFEBT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


W- 


whenever  they  saw  a  new  house  erected  or  ship  launched,  and 
persuading  themselves  that  Adn^iral  Van  Tronni)  wouhl  one  day 
or  other  arrive  to  sweep  out  the  invaders  with  the  broom  which 
he  carried  at  his  mast-head. 

Years  rolled  by,  but  Van  Tromp  never  Jirrivod.  The  liritisli 
strengthened  themselves  in  tlie  laud,  and  the  captured  city 
flourished  under  their  domination.  Still,  the  worthies  of  Coin- 
munipaw  would  not  despair ;  something  or  other,  they  were 
sure,  would  turn  I'p  to  restore  the  i)ower  oi  the  Hogen  ^Iog(•ns, 
the  Lord  Stafcs-Oeucral ;  so  they  kept  smoking  and  smoking, 
and  watching  and  watching,  and  turning  the  same  few  thouglits 
over  and  over  in  a  perpetual  circle,  which  is  commonly  culled 
deliberating.  In  the  mean  time,  being  hemmed  up  within  a 
narrow  compass,  between  the  broad  bay  and  the  Bergen  hills, 
they  gr;  w  poorer  and  poorer,  imtil  tlicj  had  scarce  the  where- 
withal to  i.iaintain  their  pipes  in  fuel  during  their  endless 
deliberations. 

And  now  must  I  relate  a  circumstance  which  will  call  for  a 
little  exertion  of  faith  on  the  ptvrt  of  the  reader ;  but  I  can  only 
say  that  if  he  doubts  it,  he  had  better  not  utter  his  doubts  in 
Coraraunipaw,  re  it  is  among  the  religious  beliefs  of  the  place. 
It  is,  in  fact,  nothing  more  nor  less  than  a  miracle,  worked  by 
the  blessed  St.  Nicholas,  for  the  relief  and  susteuanc(^  of  this 
loyal  community. 

It  so  happened,  in  this  time  of  extremity,  that  in  the  course 
of  cleanint;  the  House  of  the  Four  Chimneys,  by  an  ignorant 
housewif'5  who  knew  nothing  of  the  historic  value  of  the  relies 
it  co'/tai'ud,  tno  old  hat  of  Walter  tiie  Doubter  and  the  execu- 
tive .s(iu(-  of  rV'tci'  the  Headstrong  were  thrown  out  of  doors  us 
rubbi'h.  IBui,  maik"  the  consequence.  The  good  St.  Nicholas 
kept  wu:oh  over  ^^hest  precious  relics,  and  wrought  out  of  them 
a  wonderful  |)r 'evidence. 

The  hat  o'  'Vaitt'?'  the  Doubter  falling  on  a  stiTcoraceous 
heap  <'f  com[.  >  t,  in  tlu'  r.ar  of  tlic  house,  began  forthwith  to 
vegetate.  Its  broad  brim  spread  forth  granOly  and  exfoliated, 
and  its  round  rown  swelled  an*'  crimjied  and  ('onsoli'liit«<l 
til  til  the  whole  became  a  prodigious  cabbage,  rivallir)g  in  ui:t'/' 
titude  the  capacious  head  of  tli(>  Doubter.  In  a  word,  it  was 
the  origin  of  thai  renowned  species  v)f  cabbage  known,  l>y  all 
Outch  epicure!.,  by  the  name  of  the  (lovernor's  Head,  and 
which  is  to  this  day  the  glory  of  Communipaw. 

On  the  otiier  hand,  the  shoe  of  Peter  Stuyvesant  being  thrown 
\nU)  the  river,  in  front  of  the  house,  gradually  hardened  and 
concreieU,  and  becauie  covered  with  barnacles,  and  at  length 


\'H 


if 


r,  I   i\ 


l.s.> 


ES. 


COMMUNIPAW. 


8t 


niched,  and 
uld  ono  day 
room  which 

The  British 
ptured  city 
ics  of  Com- 
,  they  wcii," 
en  MofTcns, 
d  sinokino;, 

3W  th()ll<rllts 

iionly  called 
ip  within  a 
ergcn  hills, 
'  the  whcrc- 
leir   endless 

11  call  for  a 
t  I  can  only 
s  doubts  in 
f  the  place. 
,  worked  by 
ince  of  this 

)  the  course 
m  ignorant 
f  the  relics 
1  the  execn- 
of  doors  as 
It.  Nicholas 
)ut  of  them 

•Tcoraccous 
orthwith  to 
exfoliated, 
onsoli<(4tii'd 
n^  in  Mt:i'/- 
rord,  it  was 
)wn,  by  all 
H(!ad,  and 


nng  thrown 
I'dei'cd  and 
1  at  length 


turned  into  a  gigantivi  oyster,  being  the  progenitor  of  that  illus- 
trious species  known  throughout  the  gastronomical  world  by 
the  name  of  the  Governor's  Foot. 

These  miracles  were  the  salvation  of  Communipaw.  The 
gages  of  the  place  immediately  saw  in  them  the  hand  of  St. 
Nicholas,  and  understood  their  mystic  signification.  They  set 
to  work  with  all  diligence  to  cultivate  and  multiply  these  great 
blessings  ;  and  so  abundantly  did  the  gubernatorial  hat  and 
shoe  fructify  and  increase,  that  in  a  little  time  great  patches  of 
cabbages  were  to  be  seen  extending  from  the  village  of  Com- 
munipaw quite  to  the  Bergen  Hills ;  while  the  whole  bottom  of 
the  bay  in  front  became  a  vast  bed  of  oysters.  Ever  since  that 
time  this  excellent  conununity  has  ))een  divided  into  two  great 
classes  :  those  who  cultivate  the  land  and  those  who  cultivate  the 
water.  The  former  have  devoted  themselves  to  the  nurture 
and  edification  of  cabbages,  rearing  them  in  all  their  varieties  ; 
while  the  latter  have  formed  parks  and  plantations,  under 
water,  to  which  juvenile  oysters  are  transplanted  from  foreign 
parts,  to  finish  their  education. 

As  these  great  sources  of  profit  multiplied  upon  their  hands, 
the  worthy  inhabitants  of  Connnunipaw  began  to  long  for  a 
market  at  which  to  dispose  of  their  superabundance.  This 
gradually  produced  once  more  an  intercourse  with  New  York ; 
but  it  was  always  carried  on  by  the  old  people  and  the  negroes ; 
never  would  they  permit  the  young  folks,  of  either  sex,  to  visit 
the  city,  lest  they  should  get  tainted  with  foreign  manners  and 
bring  home  foreign  fashions.  Even  to  this  day,  if  you  see  an 
old  burgher  in  the  market,  with  hat  and  garb  of  anticjue  Dutch 
fashion,  you  may  be  sure  he  is  one  of  the  old  uncontiuered  race 
of  the  '' bitter  blood,"  who  maintain  their  stronghold  at  Com- 
munipaw. 

In  modern  days,  the  hereditary  bitterness  against  the  English 
has  lost  much  of  its  asperity,  or  rat^'-;r  has  become  merged  in 
a  new  source  of  jeaK>usy  and  apprehension  :  1  allude  to  the  inces- 
sant and  wide-sprciiding  irruptions  from  New  England.  Word 
haH  been  continually  brought  back  to  Communipaw,  ])y  those 
of  the  comnuinity  who  return  from  their  trading  voyages  in 
cabbages  and  oysterH,  of  the  alarming  power  which  the  Yan- 
kees are  gaining  in  the  anci<'nt  city  of  New  Amsterdam  ;  elbow- 
ing tlie  genuine  Kni('k<'rl)0(kers  out  of  all  civic  posts  of  honor 
and  profit ;  bargaining  them  out  of  their  hereditary  homesteads ; 
|)ulling  down  the  venerable  houses,  with  crow-step  gables,  which 
hHve  Htood  since  the  time  of  the  Dutch  rule,  and  erecting,  in- 
Bk'iid,  granite  stores,  and  marble  banks;  in  a  word,  evincing  a 


VM 
ill, 

k 


<\ 


ii"  I  i 


•^. 


^ 


88 


WOLFERT\S  nOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


M  i! 


[;'  ^  ;i 


i'  i 


I 


deadly  determination  to  obliterate  every  vestige  of  the  good  old 
Dutch  times. 

In  consequenee  of  the  jealousy  thus  awakened,  the  worthy 
traders  from  Comniunipaw  confine  their  dealings,  as  much  as 
pos3il)le,  to  the  genuine  Dutch  families.  If  they  furnish  the 
Yankees  at  all,  it  is  with  inferior  articles.  Never  can  the  latter 
procure  a  real  "Governor's  Head,"  or  "  Oovernor's  Foot," 
though  they  have  offered  extravagant  prices  for  tlie  same,  to 
grace  their  table  orj  the  annual  festival  of  the  New  England 
Society. 

Hut  what  has  carried  this  hostility  to  the  Yankees  to  the 
highest  pitch,  was  an  attempt  made  by  that  all-pervading  vmv 
to  get  possession  of  Communipaw  itself.  Y''es,  Sir ;  din-ing  the 
late  mania  for  land  speculation,  a  daring  company  of  Yankee 
projectors  landed  before  the  village;  stopped  tiie  iionest  buigli- 
ers  on  the  public  highway,  and  endeavored  to  bargain  llu'in 
out  of  their  hereditary  acres ;  displayed  lithographic  maps,  in 
which  *iieir  cabbage-gardens  were  laid  out  into  town  lots;  tlieir 
oyster-p  ;Tks  into  docks  and  quays;  and  even  the  House  of  the 
Four  Chimneys  metamorphosed  into  a  bank,  which  was  to  enrich 
the  whole  neighborhood  with  paper  monc}'. 

Fortunately,  the  gallant  Vnu  Homes  came  to  the  rescue,  just 
as  some  of  the  worthy  burghers  were  on  tl.e  point  of  capitulat- 
ing. The  Yankees  were  put  to  the  rout,  with  signal  confusion, 
and  have  never  since  dared  to  show  their  faces  in  tl;e  place. 
The  good  people  contin.ie  to  cultivate-  their  cabbages,  and  rear 
their  oysters  ;  they  know  nothing  of  banks,  nor  joint  stock 
companies,  but  treasure  up  their  money  in  stocking-feet,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  family  chest,  or  bury  it  in  iron  pots,  as  did  their 
fathcis  and  grandfathers  before  them. 

As  to  the  House  of  the  Four  Chimneys,  it  still  remains  in  the 
great  and  tall  family  of  the  Van  Homes.  Here  are  to  b<.>  seen 
ancient  Dutch  corner  cupi)oards,  chests  of  drawers,  and  mas- 
sive clothes-presses,  (piaintly  carved,  and  carefully  waxed  and 
polished  ;  together  with  divers  thick,  black-letter  volumes,  with 
brass  clasps,  printed  of  yore  in  Leyelen  and  Amsterdam,  and 
handed  down  from  generation  to  generation,  in  the  family,  but 
never  read.  They  are  |)reserved  in  the  archives,  among  sundry 
old  parchment  deeds,  in  Dutch  and  English,  bearing  the  seals  of 
the  early  governors  of  the  province. 

In  this  house,  the  primitive  Dutch  holidays  of  Paas  and 
Pinxter  are  faithfully  kept  up  ;  and  New- Year  celebrated  with 
cookiea  and  cherry-bounce  ;  nor  is  the  festival  of  the  blessed 
St.  Nicholas  forgotten,  when  all  the  children  aro  sure  to  bang 


1.1 


ES. 


»e  good  old 

tho  worthy 
IS  imich  as 
iirnisli  tlu; 
1  the  hitter 
•r's  Foot," 
s:iine,  to 
w  KiJghiud 


teos  to  the 
'juliuif  nice 
(hiring  tlie 
of  y;iiikcij 
nest  hiii'oh- 
•gain  them 
e  nui[».s,  in 
lots  ;  tlieir 
nine  of  tlie 
us  to  enrich 

■escuo,  just 

capitiilat- 

ooufusion, 

the  [)hu'e. 

s,  and  rear 

joint  Htoek 

feet,  at  the 

H  did  their 

ains  in  the 
to  be  seen 
,  and  mas- 
vaxed  and 
liuies,  with 
rdarn,  and 
'amily,  hut 
>ng  sundry 
lie  seals  of 

Paas  and 
rated  with 
he  blessed 
e  to  hang 


CONSPIRACY  OF  TUB  COCKED  HATS.  89 

up  their  stockings,  and  to  have  them  filled  according  to  their 
deserts  ;  though,  it  is  said,  the  good  saint  is  occasionally  per- 
plexed  in  his  nocturnal  visits,  wliich  chimney  to  descend. 

Of  late,  this  portentous  mansion  has  begun  to  give  signs  of 
ililapidation  and  decay.  Some  have  aur;b".ted  this  to  tlie 
visits  made  by  the  young  people  to  the  city,  and  their  bringing 
thence  various  modern  fashions ;  and  to  their  neglect  of  the 
Dutch  language,  which  is  gradually  becoming  conliued  to  the 
older  persons  in  the  community.  The  house,  too,  was  greatly 
8hakeii  by  high  winds,  during  the  prevalence  of  the  speculation 
mania,  especially  at  the  time  of  the  landing  of  the  Yankees. 
Seeing  how  mysteriously  the  fate  of  Comniunipaw  is  identiUed 
with  this  venerable  mansion,  we  cannot  wonder  that  the  older 
iind  wiser  heads  of  the  community  should  be  filled  with  dismay, 
whenever  a  brick  is  toppled  down  from  one  of  the  chimneys,  or 
u  weather-cock  is  blown  off  from  a  gable-end. 

The  present  lord  of  this  historic  pile,  I  am  happy  to  say,  is 
calculated  to  maintain  it  in  all  its  integrity.  lie  is  of  patri- 
archal age,  and  is  worthy  of  the  days  of  the  patriarchs.  He 
has  done  his  utmost  to  increase  and  multiply  the  true  race  in 
the  land.  His  wife  has  not  been  inferior  to  him  in  zeal,  and 
they  are  surrounded  by  a  goodly  progeny  of  children,  and 
grand-children,  and  great-granil-children,  who  promise  to  per- 
petuate the  name  of  N'an  llorne,  until  time  shall  be  no  more. 
So  be  it!  Long  may  the  horn  of  the  Van  Homes  continue  to 
bc!  exalted  in  tlie  laiul !  Tall  as  they  are,  may  their  shadows 
never  be  less  !  May  the  House  of  the  Four  Chimneys  remain 
for  ages,  Uie  citadel  of  Coinmunipaw,  and  the  smoke  of  the 
chimneys  continut!  to  ascend,  a  sweet-smelling  iuceuse  in  the 
nose  of  St.  Niehohis  ! 

With  great  respect,  Mr.  Editor, 

Your  ob't  servant, 

UEUMANUS  VANDERDONK. 


CONSPIRACY  OF  THE  COCKED  HATS. 

To  THE  Editou  of  tue  Knickerbocker. 

Sir :  I  have  read  with  great  satisfaction  the  valuable  paper 
of  your  correspondent,  Mr.  Hermanus  Vanderdonk,  (who,  I 
take  it,  is  a  descendant  of  the  learned  Adrian  Vanderdonk,  one 
of  the  early  historians  of  the  Nieuw  Nederlands,)  giving  sundry 


'iil-   ^ 


li  { 


\ 


u 


90 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


11 


u 


\  \' 


I      9    ! 


4 


particul.ars,  lea;<?n(li^i'y  a^^fl  statistical,  toiuihin}^  the  vcnorable 
village  of  Coinmuuipaw  and  its  fate-boiind  citadel,  the  House 
of  the  Four  Chimneys.  It  goes  to  prove  what  I  have  repeatedly 
maintained,  that  we  live  in  the  midst  of  history  and  niyslcrv 
and  romance ;  and  that  there  is  no  spot  in  the  world  more  ricli 
in  themes  for  the  writer  of  historic  novels,  heroic  melodramas, 
and  rough-shod  epics,  than  this  same  business-looking  city  of 
the  Manhattoes  and  its  environs.  He  who  would  lind  tlicse 
elements,  however,  must  not  seek  them  among  the  modern  im- 
provements  and  modern  people  of  this  moneyed  metropolis,  hut 
must  dig  for  them,  as  for  Kidd  the  pirate's  treasures,  in  out-of- 
the-way  places,  and  among  the  ruins  of  the  past. 

Poetry  and  romance  received  a  fatal  blow  at  the  overthiow  of 
the  ancient  Dutch  dynasty,  and  have  ever  since  been  gradually 
withering  under  the  growing  domination  of  the  Yankees,  'lliey 
abandoned  our  hearths  when  the  old  Dutch  tiles  were  suijorscdcd 
by  marble  chimney-pieces;  when  brass  andirons  made  way  for 
polished  grates,  and  the  crackling  and  blazing  lire  of  nut-wood 
gave  i)lace  to  the  smoke  and  stench  of  Liverpool  coal ;  and  on 
the  downfall  of  the  last  gabel-end  house,  their  re(piieni  was 
tolled  from  the  tower  of  the  Dutch  church  in  Nassau-street  hy 
the  old  bell  that  came  .rom  Holland.  But  poetry  and  loinance 
still  live  unseen  among  us,  or  seen  only  by  the  enlightened  few, 
who  are  able  to  contemplate  this  city  antl  its  environs  tlnou<;li 
the  medium  of  tradition,  and  clothed  with  the  associations  of 
foregone  ages. 

Would  you  seek  these  elements  in  the  country,  Mr.  lulit.or, 
avoid  all  turnpikes,  railroads,  and  steamboats,  those  abomina- 
ble inventions  by  which  the  usurping  Yankees  are  strengtln  u- 
ing  themselves  ia  the  laud,  and  subduing  every  thing  to  utility 
and  commonplace.  Avoid  all  towns  and  cities  of  white  claii- 
lj(xird  palaces  and  Grecian  temples,  studiled  with  "•  Academics,'' 
'^Seminaries,"  and  "Institutes,"  which  glisten  along  our  bays 
and  rivers  ;  these  are  the  strongholds  of  Yankee  usurpation  ; 
but  if  haply  you  light  upon  some  rough,  rambling  road,  wind- 
ing between  stone  fences,  gray  with  moss,  and  overgrown  with 
elder,  poke-berry,  mullein,  and  sweet-briar,  with  here  anil  there  a 
low,  red-roofed,  whitewashed  farm-house,  cowering  among  apple 
and  cherry  trees  ;  an  old  stone  church,  with  elms,  willows,  and 
button-woods,  as  old-looking  as  itself,  and  tombstones  almost 
buried  in  their  own  graves ;  and,  peradventure,  a  small  log 
school-house  at  a  cross-road,  where  the  English  is  still  taught 
with  a  thickness  of  the  tongue,  instead  of  a  twang  of  the  nose  ; 
should  you,  1  say,  light  upou  such  a  ueighborhood,  Mr.  Editort 


venorahle 
>  the  House 
e  r('ppiit(!(]|y 
mil  inystiTv 
1  more  licj, 
ni'lodriuiias, 
iwj;  city  of 
liiid  these 
Niodern  hii- 
Lrupclis,  Idit 
I,  in  oiil-ot'- 

verthrow  of 
n  jjcnuhially 
ct'es.  'I'hey 
'  siiporseded 
ude  way  for 

>f    Mllt-Wood 

>!d  ;  and  on 
»'<|ijieiii  Was 
m-strcet  hy 
lid  I'oiiiaiice 
itcMed  few, 
)iis  through 
oeiatioiis  of 

Mr.  Kdifor, 
it'  uhoiiiiiia- 
stren<i;theii- 
1?  to  iitihiy 
wliite  cl.-i))- 
cacU'rnies," 
ii;  our  hays 
isiirpation  ; 
oud,  vviud- 
^rcjwn  with 
.'iiid  there  a 
ii<)ii<;  apple 
illow.s,  and 
tK'H  uliiiost 

small  lo<r 
itlll  taugiit 

the  nose ; 
Ir.  Editor, 


CONSPIRACY  OF  TUE  COCK  IS  D  HATS. 


91 


you  may  thank  your  stars  that  you  have  fouiul  one  of  the  lin<Ter- 
!,!<;•  haunts  of  poetry  and  romance.  " 

Your  correspondent,  Sir,  has  touched  upon  that  sublime  and 
afTecting  feature  in  the  history  of  Communipaw,  the  retreat  of 
the  patriotic  hand  of  Nederlanders,  led  by  Van  Home,  whom 
he  justly  terms  the  IVhiyo  of  the  New  Netherlands.  He  has 
jiivcn  you  a  picture  of  the  manner  in  which  they  ensconced 
tiiemselves  in  the  House  of  the  Four  Chimneys,  and  awaited 
with  lu-roic  i)atience  an>:  perseverance  the  day  that  should  sec 
the  Mag  of  the  Hogen  Mogens  once  more  floating  on  the  fort  of 
New  Amsterdam. 

Your  corrcHpondent,  Sir,  has  but  given  you  a  glimpse  over 
tiie  threshold  ;  I  will  now  let  you  into  the  heart  of  the  mystery 
of  this  most  mysterious  and  eventful  village.  Yes,  sir,  I  will 
now 

"  unclnRp  a  Hccrct  book; 

And  to  your  quick  conceiving  diHcontenU, 
I'll  read  you  matter  deep  and  dangcroua, 
Ah  full  of  peril  and  adventurous  gplrit, 
Ah  to  o'er  walk  a  current,  roaring  loud, 
On  the  uuHtcadfaHt  fooling  of  a  §pear." 

Sir,  it  is  one  of  tlu^  most  lieautiful  and  interesting  facts  con- 
nected with  the  history  of  Communipaw,  that  the  early  feeling 
of  resistiince  to  foreign  rule,  alluded  to  by  your  correspondent, 
is  still  ke|)t  nj).  Yes,  sir,  a  settled,  secret,  and  determined 
conspiracy  has  been  going  on  for  generations  among  this  iiulom- 
italtle  people,  the  descendants  of  the  refugees  from  New  Am- 
sterdam ;  the  ol)ject  of  which  is  to  redeem  their  ancient  seat  of 
empire,  and  to  drive  the  losel  Y'ankees  out  of  the  land. 

Comnumipaw,  it  is  true,  has  the  glory  of  origiiuiting  this 
C()nsi)iracy  ;  and  it  was  hatched  and  reared  in  the  House  of  the 
Four  Chimneys;  but  it  has  spread  far  and  wide  over  ancient 
Tavonia,  surmounted  the  heights  of  Bergen,  Hoboken,  and 
Weehawk,  crept  up  along  the  banks  of  the  Passaic  and  the 
Hackensack,  until  it  pervades  the  whole  chivalry  of  the  coun- 
try from  Tappaan  Slote  in  the  north  to  Piscataway  in  the  south, 
including  the  pugnacious  village  of  Rahway,  more  heroically 
denominated  S|)ank-town. 

Throughout  all  these  regions  a  great  "  in-and-in  confederacy  " 
prevails,  that  is  to  say,  a  confetleracy  among  the  Dutch  fami- 
lies, by  dint  of  diligent  and  exclusive  intermarriage,  to  keep 
the  race  pure  and  to  multiply.  If  ever,  Mr.  Editor,  in  the 
course  of  your  travels  between  Spank-town  and  Tappaan  Slote, 
you  should  see  a  coaey,  low-eaved  farm-house,  teeming  with 


I! 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


1.8 


1.25 

1.4     1 1.6 

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6"     

► 

Photogi'aphic 

Sciences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14S80 

(716)  872-4503 


'9) 


92 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


sturdy,  broad-built  little  urchins,  you  may  set  »t  down  as  one 
of  the  breeding  places  of  this  grand  secret  confederacy,  stocked 
with  the  embryo  deliverers  of  New  Amsterdam. 

Another  step  in  the  progress  of  this  patriotic  conspiracy,  is  the 
establishment,  in  various  places  within  the  ancient  boundarii's 
of  the  Nieuw  Nederlands,  of  secret,  or  rather  mysterious  asso- 
ciations, composed  of  the  genuine  sons  of  the  Nederlandcrs, 
with  the  ostensible  object  of  keeping  up  the  memory  of  old 
times  and  customs,  but  with  the  real  object  of  promoting  the 
views  of  this  dark  and  mighty  plot,  and  extending  its  ramifi- 
cations throughout  the  land. 

Sir,  I  am  descended  i  rom  a  long  line  of  genuine  Nederland- 
crs, who,  though  they  remained  in  the  city  of  New  Amsterdiim 
after  the  conquest,  and  throughout  the  usurpation,  have  never 
in  their  hearts  been  able  to  tolerate  the  yoke  imposed  upon 
them.  My  worthy  father,  who  was  one  of  the  last  of  tlio 
cocked  hats,  had  a  little  knot  of  cronies,  of  his  own  .stamp, 
who  used  to  meet  in  our  wainscoted  parlor,  round  a  nut-wood 
fire,  talk  over  old  times,  when  the  city  was  ruled  by  its  native 
burgomasters,  and  groan  over  the  monopoly  of  all  places  (4 
power  and  profit  by  the  Yankees.  I  well  recollect  tlie  effect 
upon  this  worthy  little  conclave,  when  the  Yankees  first  insti- 
tuted their  Nevv'-England  Society,  held  their  '-national  festi- 
val," toasted  their  "  father  land,"  and  sang  their  foreign  soni^s 
of  triumph  within  the  very  precincts  of  our  ancient  metropolis. 
Sir,  from  that  day,  my  father  held  the  smell  of  codlish  and 
potatoes,  and  the  sight  of  pumpkin  pie,  in  utter  abomination ; 
and  whenever  the  annual  dinner  of  the  New  England  Society 
came  rouud,  it  was  a  sore  anniversary  for  his  children.  He 
got  up  in  an  ill  humor,  grumbled  and  growled  throughout  the 
day,  and  not  one  of  us  went  to  bed  that  night,  without  having 
had  his  jacket  well  trounced,  to  the  tune  of  "The  Pilgrim 
Fathers.'"' 

You  may  judge,  then,  Mr.  Editor,  of  the  exaltation  of  all 
true  patriots  of  this  stamp,  when  the  Society  of  Sahit  Nich- 
olas was  set  up  among  us,  and  intrepidly  established,  cheek 
by  jole,  alongside  of  the  society  of  the  invaders.  Never  shall 
I  forget  the  effect  upon  my  father  and  his  little  knot  of  brother 
groaners,  when  tidings  were  brought  them  that  the  ancient 
banner  of  the  Manhattoes  was  actually  fioating  from  the  win- 
dow of  the  City  Hotel.  Sir,  they  nearly  jumped  out  of  their 
silver-buckled  shoes  for  joy.  They  took  down  their  cocked 
bats  from  the  pegs  on  which  they  had  hanged  them,  as  the 
Israelites  of  yore  bung  their  harps  upon  the  willows,  iu  token 


lES. 


CONSPIRACY  OF  THE  COCKED  BATS. 


93 


lown  as  one 
acy,  stocked 

>lracy,  is  the 
t  boundarii-s 
erious  asso- 
ederlandcrs, 
mory  of  old 
oinotinf;  tlio 
g  its  rainifi- 

Nederland- 

Amsterdiiiii 

have  never 
iposed  upon 

hvfct  of  the 
own  .stamp, 

a  nut- wood 
>y  its  native 
II  places  (»f 
1   the  effect 

first  insti- 
tional  festi- 
>reign  sonj^s 

nietroi)olis. 
codfish  and 
l)oininati(»n  ; 
and  Society 
ildren.  He 
Jiighout  the 
lout  havin<^ 
.'he  Pilgrim 


ation  of  all 
•>aint  Nieh- 
ihed,  cheek 
Never  shall 
.  of  brother 
the  ancient 
m  the  win- 
•ut  of  their 
leir  cocked 
em,  as  the 
s,  in  token 


of  bondage,  clapped  them  resolutely  once  more  upon  their 
heads,  and  cocked  them  in  the  face  of  every  Yankee  they  met 
on  the  way  to  the  banqueting-room. 

The  institution  of  this  society  was  hailed  with  transiwrt 
throughout  the  whole  extent  of  the  New  Netherlands ;  being 
considered  a  secret  foothold  gained  in  New  Amsterdam,  and 
a  flattering  presage  of  future  triumph.  Whenever  that  society 
holds  its  annual  feast,  a  sympathetic  hilarity  prevails  through- 
oat  the  land ;  ancient  Pavonia  sends  over  its  contributions°of 
cabbages  and  oysters;  the  House  of  the  Four  Chimneys  is 
splendidly  illuminated,  and  the  traditional  song  of  St.  Nich- 
olas, the  mystic  bond  of  union  and  conspiracy,  is  chanted 
with  closed  doors,  in  every  genuine  Dutch  family. 

I  have  thus,  I  trust,  Mr.  Editor,  opened  your  eyes  to  some 
of  the  grand  moral,  po'tical,  and  political  phenomena  with 
which  you  are  surrounded.  You  will  now  be  able  to  read  the 
"signs  of  the  times."  You  will  now  understand  what  is 
meant  by  those  "Knickerbocker  Halls,"  and  "Knickerbocker 
Hotels,"  and  "  Knickerbocker  Lunches,"  that  are  daily  spring- 
ing up  in  our  city  and  what  all  these  "Knickerbocker  Omni- 
buses" are  driving  at.  You  will  see  in  them  so  many  clouds 
before  a  storm  ;  so  many  mysterious  but  sublime  intimations 
of  the  gathering  vengeance  of  a  great  though  oppressed  people. 
Above  all,  you  will  now  contemplate  our  bay  and  its  porten- 
tous borders,  with  proper  feelings  of  awe  and  admiration. 
Talk  of  the  Hay  of  Naples,  and  its  volcanic  mountains  !  Why, 
Sir,  little  Communipaw,  sleeping  among  its  cabbage  gardens, 
"quiet  as  gunpowder,"  yet  with  this  t.\>mendous  conspiracy 
l)rewing  in  its  bosom,  is  an  object  ten  times  as  sul)lime  (in  a 
moral  point  of  view,  mark  me)  as  Vesuvius  in  repose,  though 
charged  with  lava  and  brimstone,  and  ready  for  an  eruption. 

Let  me  advert  to  a  circumstance  connected  with  this  theme, 
which  cannot  but  be  appreciated  by  every  heart  of  sensibility. 
You  nmst  have  remarked,  Mr.  Editor,  on  summer  evenings, 
and  on  Sunday  afternoons,  certain  grave,  primitive-looking  per- 
sonages, walking  the  Battery,  in  close  confabulation,  with  their 
canes  behind  their  backs,  and  ever  and  anon  turning  a  wistful 
gaze  toward  the  Jersey  shore.  These,  sir,  are  the  sons  of 
Saint  Nicholas,  the  genuine  Nederlanders ;  who  regard  Com- 
munipaw with  pious  reverence,  not  merely  as  the  progenitor, 
but  the  destined  regenerator,  of  this  great  metropolis.  Yes, 
Sir ;  they  are  looking  with  longing  eyes  to  the  green  marshes 
of  ancient  Pavonia,  as  did  the  poor  conquered  Spaniards  of 
yore  toward  the  stern  mountains  of  Asturias,  wondering  whether 


P»  t 


■  -v. 


■'•  ( 


94 


WOLTEHTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


the  day  of  deliverance  is  at  hand.  Many  is  the  time,  when,  in 
my  hoyliood,  I  have  walked  with  my  father  and  his  confidential 
compeers  on  the  Battery,  and  listened  to  their  calculations  and 
conjectures,  and  observed  the  points  of  their  sharp  cocked  hats 
evermore  turned  toward  Pavonia.  Nay,  Sir,  I  am  convinced 
that  at  this  moment,  if  I  were  to  take  down  the  cocked  hat  of 
my  lamented  father  from  the  pe<i;  on  which  it  has  hung  for 
years,  and  were  to  carry  it  to  the  Battery,  its  centre  point,  true 
as  the  needle  to  the  pole,  would  turn  to  Communipaw. 

Mr.  Editor,  the  great  historic  drama  of  New  Amsterdam  is 
but  half  acted.  The  reigns  of  Walter  the  Doubter,  William  the 
Testy,  and  Peter  the  Headstrong,  with  the  rise,  progress,  and 
decline  of  the  Dutch  dynasty,  are  but  so  many  parts  of  the 
main  action,  the  triumphant  catastrophe  of  which  is  yet  to 
come.  Yes,  Sir !  the  deliverance  of  the  New  Nederlands  from 
Yankee  domination  will  eclipse  the  far-famed  redemption  of 
Spain  from  the  Moors,  and  the  oft-sung  conquest  of  Granada 
will  fade  before  the  chivalrous  triumph  of  New  Amsterdam. 
Would  that  Peter  Stuyvesant  could  rise  from  his  grave  to  wit- 
ness that  day ! 

Your  humble  servant, 

ROLOFF  VAN  RirPER. 


P.S.  Just  as  I  had  conrluded  the  foregoing  epistle,  I  re- 
ceived a  piece  of  intelligence,  which  makes  me  tremble  for  the 
fate  of  Communipaw.  I  fear,  Mr.  Editor,  the  grand  conspiracy 
is  in  danger  of  being  countermined  and  counteracted,  by  those 
all-pervading  and  indefatigable  Yankees.  AV'ould  you  think  it. 
Sir !  one  of  them  has  actually  effected  an  entry  in  the  place  by 
covered  way  ;  or  in  other  words,  under  cover  of  the  petticoats. 
Finding  every  other  mode  ineffectual,  he  secretly  laid  siege  to 
a  Dutch  heiress,  who  owns  a  great  cabbage-garden  in  her  own 
right.  Being  a  smooth-tongued  varlet,  he  easily  prevailed  on 
her  to  elope  with  him,  and  they  were  privately  married  at  Spank- 
town  !  The  first  notice  the  good  people  of  Communipaw  had  of 
this  awful  event,  was  a  lithographed  map  of  the  cabbage-garden 
laid  out  in  town  lots,  and  advertised  for  sale  !  On  the  night  of 
the  wedding,  the  main  weather-cock  of  the  House  of  the  Four 
Chimneys  was  carried  away  in  a  whirlwind  !  The  greatest  con- 
sternation reigna  throughout  the  village  1 


.*^tfc5«*»^ri^ 


riE&. 

me,  when,  in 
confidential 
dilations  and 
cocked  hats 
m  oonvinceil 
ocked  hat  of 
las  hung  for 
re  point,  true 
lavv. 

Lnisterdam  is 
,  William  the 
)rojj;ress,  and 
parts  of  the 
cli  is  yet  to 
lerl.'inds  from 
edemption  of 
t  of  G  ranada 
Amsterdam, 
grave  to  wit- 


AN  RirPER 


epistle,  I  re- 
niMe  for  the 
)d  conspiracy 
'ted,  Ity  those 
you  think  it, 

the  place  by 
le  petticoats, 
laid  siege  to 
n  in  her  own 

prevailed  on 
ied  at  Spank- 
inipaw  had  of 
hbage-garden 
1  the  night  of 
!  of  the  Four 
greatest  con- 


I    1    f 


A  LEGEND  OF  COMMUNIPAW.  95 


A   LEGEND  OF  COMMUNIPAW. 

To  THE  Editor  of  the  Knickerbockeu  Magazine. 

Sir:  I  observed  in  your  last  month's  periodical,  a  communi- 
cation from  a  Mr.  Vandekdonk,  giving  some  information  con- 
cerning Communipaw.  1  herewith  send  you,  Mr.  Editor,  a 
legend  connected  with  that  place;  and  am  much  surprised  it 
should  have  escaped  the  researches  of  your  very  authentic  cor- 
resiwndent,  as  it  relates  to  an  edifice  scarcely  less  fated  tiian 
the  House  of  the  Four  Chimneys.  I  give  you  the  legend  in  its 
crude  and  simple  state,  as  I  heard  it  related ;  it  is  capable,  how- 
ever, of  being  dilated,  inflated,  and  dressed  up  into  very  impos- 
ing shape  and  dimensions.  Should  any  of  your  ingenious  con- 
tributors in  this  line  feel  inclined  to  take  it  in  hand,  they 
will  find  ample  materials,  collateral  and  illustrative,  among  the 
papers  of  the  late  Reiuier  Skaats,  many  years  since  crier  of  the 
court,  and  keeper  of  the  City  Hall,  in  the  city  of  the  Manhat- 
toes  ;  or  in  the  library  of  that  important  and  utterly  renowned 
functionary,  Mr.  Jacob  Hays,  long  time  high  constable,  who,  in 
the  course  of  his  extensive  researches,  has  amassed  an  amount 
of  valuable  facts,  to  h&  rivalled  only  by  that  great  historical  col- 
lection, "The  Newgate  Calendar." 

Your  humble  servant, 

BARENT  VAN  SCHAICK. 


GUESTS  FROM  GIBBET  ISLAND. 

A   LEGEND   OF   COMMUNIPAW. 

Whoever  has  visited  the  ancient  and  renowned  village  of 
Communipaw,  may  have  noticed  an  old  stone  building,  of  most 
ruinous  and  sinister  appearance.  The  doors  and  window-shut- 
ters are  ready  to  drop  from  their  hinges ;  old  clothes  are  stuffed 
in  the  broken  panes  of  glass,  while  legions  of  half-starved  dogs 
prowl  about  the  premises,  and  rush  out  and  bark  at  every  passer- 
by ;  for  your  beggarly  house  in  a  village  is  most  apt  to  swarm 
with  profligate  and  ill-conditioned  dogs.  What  adds  to  the 
sinister  appearance  of  this  mansion,  is  a  tall  frame  in  front, 
u<it  a  little  resembling  a  gallows,  and  which  looks  as  if  waiting 
to  accommodate  some  of  the  inhabitants  with  a  well-merited 
airing.     It  is  not  a  gallows,  however,  but  an  ancient  sign-post  j 


i 


■l^i  I 


■  is-, 


■  -•'i»»v»«*« 


f  51 


r 


a  I 


1 

^^^B  1 

i  < 

^K.* 

i 

^■'i 

I- 

M 

■f' 

BB 

L 

w  - 

" 

(- 

I  ' 

ii 

1  ,' 

96 


WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


for  this  dwelling,  in  the  golden  days  of  Communipaw,  was  one 
of  the  most  orderly  and  peaceful  of  village  taverns,  v/herc  all 
the  public  affairs  of  Communipaw  were  talked  and  smoked  over. 
In  fact,  it  was  in  this  very  building  that  Oloffe  the  Dreamer, 
and  his  companions,  concerted  that  great  voyage  of  discovery 
and  colonization,  in  which  they  explored  Huttermilk  Channel, 
were  nearly  shipwrecked  in  the  strait  of  Ilell-gate,  and  fiiuiUy 
landed  on  the  island  of  Manhattan,  and  founded  the  great  city 
of  New  Amsterdam. 

Even  after  the  province  had  been  cruelly  wrested  from  the 
sway  of  their  High  Mightinesses,  by  the  combined  forces  of  tlu; 
British  and  Yankees,  this  tavern  continued  its  ancient  loyalty. 
It  is  true,  the  head  of  the  Prince  of  Orange  disappeared  from 
the  sign  ;  a  strange  bird  being  painted  over  it,  with  the  explan- 
atory legend  of  "  Dik  Wilde  Gans,"  or  Tlie  Wild  Goose  ;  Itut 
this  all  the  world  knew  to  be  a  sly  riddle  of  the  landlord,  the 
worthy  Tennis  Van  Gieson,  a  knowing  man  in  a  small  way, 
who  laid  his  finger  lieside  liis  nose  and  winked,  when  any  one 
studied  the  signification  of  his  sign,  and  observed  that  his  goose 
was  hatching,  but  would  join  the  flock  whenever  they  Hew  over 
the  water ;  an  enigma  which  was  the  perpetual  lecreation  and 
deli.jht  of  the  loyal  but  fat-headed  burghers  of  Communipaw. 

Under  the  sway  of  this  patriotic,  though  discreet  and  quiet 
publican,  the  tavern  continued  to  flourish  in  primeval  tran- 
quillity, and  was  the  resort  of  all  true-hearted  Netherlaiiders, 
from  all  parts  of  Pavonia ;  who  met  here  quietly  and  secretly, 
to  smoke  and  drink  the  downfall  of  Briton  and  Yankee,  and 
success  to  Admiral  Van  Tromp. 

The  only  drawback  on  the  comfort  of  the  establishment,  was 
a  nephew  of  mine  host,  a  sister's  son,  Yan  Yost  Vantlerscainp 
by  name,  and  a  real  scamp  by  nature.  This  unlucky  whipster 
showed  an  early  propensity  to  mischief,  which  he  gratified  in 
a  small  way,  by  playing  tricks  ujwn  the  frequenters  of  the  Wild 
Goose  ;  putting  gunpowder  in  their  pipes,  or  squibs  in  their 
pockets,  and  astonishing  them  with  an  explosion,  while  they  sat 
nodding  round  the  fireplace  in  the  bar-room  ;  and  if  perchance 
a  worthy  burgher  from  some  distant  part  of  Pavonia  had  lingered 
until  dark  over  his  potation,  it  was  oilds  but  that  young  V^an- 
derscamp  would  slip  a  briar  under  his  horse's  tail,  as  he  mounted, 
and  send  him  clattering  along  the  road,  in  neck-or-nothing  style, 
to  his  infinite  astonishment  and  discomfiture. 

It  may  be  wondered  at,  that  mine  host  of  the  Wild  Goose  did 
not  turn  such  a  graceless  varlet  out  of  doors  ;  but  Teunis  Van 
GiesoQ  was  ao  easy-tempered  man,  and,  having  uo  child  o.C  his 


lES. 

»aw,  was  one 
IS,  v/here  all 
imoked  over, 
he  Dreamer, 
of  discovery 
ilk  Channel, 
,  and  finally 
he  groat  city 

:,ed  from  tiie 
forces  of  the 
!ient  loyalty. 
»peared  from 
I  the  explan- 
Goose  ;  hut 
landlord,  the 
X  small  way, 
vhen  any  one 
hat  his  goose 
hey  Hew  over 
^creation  and 
nmunipaw. 
!et  and  quiet 
•imeval  tran- 
iCthcrlanders, 
and  secretly, 
Yankee,  and 

lishment,  was 
V^anderscamp 
leky  whipster 
e  gratified  in 
•s  of  the  Wild 
piibs  in  their 
tvhilc  they  sat 
if  perchance 
I  had  lingered 
t  young  Van- 
s  he  mounted, 
nothing  style, 

ild  Goose  did 
t  Tenuis  Van 
o  child  of  his 


A  LEGEND  OF  COMMUNIPAW. 


97 


y 


own,  looked  upon  his  nephew  with  almost  parental  indulgence. 
His  patience  and  good-nature  were  doomed  to  be  tried  by  an^ 
other  inmate  of  his  mansion.  This  was  a  cross-grained  cur- 
mudgeon of  a  negro,  named  Pluto,  who  was  a  kind  of  enigma 
in  Communipaw.  Where  he  came  from,  nobody  knew.  °He 
was  found  one  morning,  after  a  storm,  cast  like  a  sea-monster 
on  the  strand,  in  front  of  the  Wild  Goose,  and  lay  there,  more 
dead  than  alive.  The  neighbors  gathered  round,  and  specu- 
lated on  this  production  of  the  deep ;  whether  it  were  fish  or 
flesh,  or  a  compound  of  both,  commonly  yclept  a  merman.  Th*? 
kind-hearted  Tennis  Van  Gieson,  seeing  that  he  wore  the  human 
form,  took  him  into  his  house,  and  warmed  him  into  life. 
By  degrees,  he  showed  signs  of  intelligence,  and  even  uttered 
sounds  very  much  like  language,  but  which  no  one  in  Commu- 
nipaw could  understand.  Some  thought  him  a  negro  just  from 
Guinea,  who  had  either  fallen  overboard,  or  escaped  from  a 
slave-ship.  Nothing,  however,  could  ever  draw  from  him  any 
account  of  his  origin.  When  questioned  on  the  subject,  he 
merely  pointed  to  Gibbet  Island,  a  small  rocky  islet,  which  lies 
in  the  open  bay,  just  opposite  to  Comnumipaw,  as  if  that  were 
his  native  place,  though  everybody  knew  it  had  never  been 
inhabited. 

In  the  process  of  time,  he  acquired  something  of  the  Dutch 
language,  that  is  to  say,  he  learnt  all  its  vocabulary  of  oaths 
and  maledictions,  with  just  words  suflTicient  to  string  them  to- 
gether. "  Donder  en  blicksen  !  "  (thunder  and  lightning,)  was 
the  gentlest  of  his  ejaculations.  For  years  he  kept  about  the 
Wild  Goose,  more  like  one  of  those  familiar  spirits,  or  house- 
hold goblins,  that  we  read  of,  than  like  a  human  being.  He 
acknowledged  allegiance  to  no  one,  but  performed  various  do- 
mestic offices,  when  it  suited  his  humor ;  waiting  occasionally 
on  the  guests ;  grooming  the  horses,  cutting  wood,  drawing 
water ;  and  all  this  without  being  ordered.  Lay  any  command 
on  him,  and  the  stubborn  sea-urchin  was  sure  to  rebel.  He  was 
never  so  much  at  home,  however,  as  when  on  the  water,  plying 
about  in  skiff  or  canoe,  entirely  alone,  fishing,  crabbing,  or 
grabbing  for  oysters,  and  would  bring  home  quantities  for  the 
larder  of  the  Wild  Goose,  which  he  would  throw  down  at  the 
kitchen  door,  with  a  growl.  No  wind  nor  weather  deterred  him 
from  launching  forth  on  his  favorite  element :  indeed,  the  wilder 
the  weather,  the  more  he  seemed  to  enjoy  it.  If  a  storm  was 
brewing,  he  was  sure  to  put  off  from  shore  ;  and  would  be  seen 
far  out  in  the  bay,  his  light  skiff  dancing  like  a  feather  on  the 
waves,  when  sea  and  sky  were  all  in  a  turmoil,  and  the  stoutest 


I 


i 


\ 


98 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


\ 


" 


- 


I 


ships  were  fain  to  lower  their  sails.  Sometimes,  on  such  occa- 
sions, he  would  l>e  absent  for  days  together.  How  he  weathered 
the  tempest,  and  how  and  where  he  sulwisted,  no  one  eoiiid 
divine,  nor  did  any  one  venture  to  ask,  for  all  had  an  almost 
superstitious  awe  of  him.  Some  of  the  Communipaw  oysternu'ii 
declared  that  they  had  more  than  once  seen  him  sudilenly  ills- 
appear,  canoe  and  all,  as  if  they  plunged  beneath  the  waves, 
and  after  a  while  ome  up  again,  in  quite  a  different  i)arl  of  the 
bay ;  whence  they  concluded  that  he  could  live  under  water  like 
that  notal)le  species  of  wild  duck,  commonly  called  the  llell- 
diver.  All  l>egan  to  consider  him  in  the  light  of  a  foul-wculher 
bird,  like  the  Mother  Carey's  Chicken,  or  Stormy  Tetrel ;  and 
whenever  they  saw  him  putting  far  out  in  his  skiff,  in  cloudy 
weather,  made  up  their  minds  for  a  storm. 

The  only  being  for  whom  he  seemed  to  have  any  liking,  was 
Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp,  and  him  he  liked  for  his  very  wicktci- 
ness.  He  in  a  manner  took  the  boy  under  his  tutelage,  pronipU'd 
him  to  all  kinds  of  mischief,  aided  him  in  every  wild,  harum- 
scarum  freak,  until  the  lad  became  the  complete  scapegrace  of 
the  village  ;  a  pest  to  his  uncle,  and  to  every  one  else.  Nor 
were  his  pranks  confined  to  the  land ;  he  soon  learned  to  ac- 
company old  Pluto  on  the  water.  Together  these  worthies 
would  cruise  alwut  the  broad  bay,  and  all  the  neighljoring 
straits  and  rivers  ;  poking  around  in  skiffs  and  canoes  ;  roi)ltiiin 
the  set-nets  of  the  fishermen  ;  landing  on  reniote  coasts,  uiid 
laying  waste  orchards  and  water-melon  patches ;  in  siioi  t, 
carrying  on  a  complete  system  of  piracy,  on  a  smsdl  scale. 
Piloted  by  Pluto,  the  youthful  Vanderscamp  soon  Iteeame  ac- 
quainted with  all  the  baya,  rivers,  creeks,  and  inlets  of  the  watery 
world  around  him  ;  could  navigate  from  the  Hook  to  Spiting- 
devil  on  the  darkest  night,  and  learned  to  set  even  the  terrors 
of  Hell-gate  at  defiance. 

At  length,  negro  and  boy  suddenly  disappeared,  and  days 
and  weeks  elapsed,  but  without  tidings  of  them.  Some  said 
they  must  .lave  run  away  and  gone  to  sea;  others  jocosely 
hinted,  that  old  Pluto,  being  no  other  than  his  namesake  in 
disguise,  had  spirited  away  the  boy  to  the  nether  regions.  All, 
however,  agreed  to  one  thing,  that  the  village  was  well  rid  of 
them. 

In  the  process  of  time,  the  gootl  Tennis  Van  Gieson  slept 
with  his  fathers,  and  the  tavern  remained  shut  up,  waiting  for 
a  claimant,  for  the  next  heir  was  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp,  and 
he  had  not  been  heard  of  for  years.  At  length,  one  day.  a 
boat  was  seen  pulling  for  the  shore,  from  a  long,  black,  rakish- 


ES. 


A  LEGEND  OF  COMldUNIPAW. 


99 


I  such  ocoa- 
^^  wt'iitliert'd 
)  oue  oouKl 
1  iin  iilinost 
V  03  sloniu'ii 
uklfuly  (lis- 
tlie  waves, 
ptut  of  tlu! 
:r  wilier  like 
(I  the  Hell- 
"oul-weather 
retrel ;  and 
f,  in  cloudy 

likiiii^,  was 
ery  wieUcd- 
;e,  pronipled 
v'ild,  haniiii- 
apetiiace  of 

else.  Nor 
Li'iied  to  ao 
se  worthies 
nei<j;hhoriiin 
ics  ;  rohhiiin 

coasts,  and 
;  in  siiorl, 
snuUl  scale. 

Itecaine  ac- 
)f  the  watery 

to  Spitiiiff- 
i  tlie  terrors 

1,  and  (hiys 
Some  saiil 
iM's  jocosely 
iKuucsake  iu 
gions.  All, 
}  well  rid  of 


jieson  slept 
waiting  for 
irscanip,  and 
,  one  day.  a 
lack,  rukish- 


lookinp;  schooner,  that  lay  at  anchor  in  the  hay.  The  boat's 
crew  seemed  worthy  of  the  craft  from  which  they  debarked. 
Never  had  snch  a  set  of  noisy,  roistering,  swaggerin-^  varlets 
landed  in  peacefnl  (V)mmtmipaw.  They  were  outlandish  in 
garb  and  demeanor,  and  were  headed  l)y  a  rough,  burly,  bully 
ruflian,  with  fiery  whiskers,  a  copper  nose,  a  scar  across  his 
face,  and  a  great  Flaunderish  beaver  slouched  on  one  side  of 
his  head,  in  whom,  to  their  dismay,  the  quiet  inhabitants  were 
made  to  recognize  their  early  pest,  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp. 
The  rear  of  this  hoi)eful  gang  was  brouglit  up  ])y  old  Pluto, 
who  had  lost  an  eye,  grown  grizzly-headed,  and  looked  more 
like  a  devil  than  ever.  Vanderscamp  renewed  his  acquaint- 
anc<?  with  the  old  burgiiers,  much  against  their  will,  and  in  a 
manner  not  at  all  to  tlieir  taste.  He  slapped  them  familiarly 
on  the  back,  gave  them  an  iron  grip  of  the  hand,  and  was  hail 
fellow  well  met.  According  to  his  own  account,  he  had  been 
all  the  world  over  ;  had  made  money  l)y  bags  full ;  had  ships  in 
every  sea,  and  now  meant  to  turn  the  Wild  Goose  into  a  coun- 
try seat,  where  he  and  his  comrades,  all  rich  merchants  from 
foreign  parts,  might  enjoy  themselves  in  the  interval  of  their 
voyages. 

Sui-o  enough,  in  a  little  while  there  was  a  complete  metamor- 
phose of  the  Wild  (Joose.  From  being  a  quiet,  peaceful  Dutch 
public  house,  it  In^came  a  most  riotous,  uproarious  private 
dwi'lling;  a  complete  rendezvous  for  boisterous  men  of  the 
seas,  who  came  here  to  have  what  they  called  a  "blow  out" 
on  dry  land,  and  might  l)e  seen  at  all  hours,  lounging  about  the 
door,  or  lolling  out  of  the  windows;  swearing  among  them- 
selves, and  cracking  rough  jokes  on  every  passer-by.  The  house 
was  litted  n[).  too,  in  so  strange  a  manner:  hammocks  slung  to 
the  walls,  instead  of  b<Hlstcads ;  otl^'  kinds  of  furniture,  of 
foreign  fashion  ;  bamboo  couches,  Spanish  chairs ;  pistols,  cut- 
lasses, and  Munderbusses,  suspended  on  every  i)eg ;  silver  cru- 
cifixes on  the  mantel-pieces,  silver  caudle-sticks  and  porringers 
on  the  tables,  contrasting  oddly  with  the  pewter  and  Delft  ware 
of  the  origintd  establishment.  And  then  the  strange  amuse- 
ments of  these  sea-monsters  !  Pitching  Spanish  dollars,  instead 
of  quoits  ;  firing  blunderbusses  out  of  the  window  ;  shooting  at 
a  mark,  or  at  any  unhappy  dog,  or  cat,  o^  pig,  or  barn-door 
fowl,  that  might  happen  to  come  within  reach. 

The  only  being  who  seemed  to  relish  their  rough  waggery, 
was  old  Pluto  ;  and  yet  he  lead  but  a  dog's  life  of  it ;  for  they 
practised  all  kinds  of  manual  jokes  upon  hira ;  kicked  him 
about  like  a  foot-ball ;  shook  bim  by  bis  grizzly  mop  of  wool, 


Ml 


100 


WOLFEHT'S   ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


ami  never  apokc  to  him  without  coupling  a  curse  by  way  of 
adjective  to  liia  name,  and  consigning  him  to  the  infernal  re- 
gions. Tlie  old  fellow,  however,  seemed  to  like  them  the  lx»t- 
ter,  the  more  they  cursed  him,  though  his  utmost  expression  of 
pleasure  never  amounted  to  more  than  the  growl  of  a  petted 
bear,  when  his  ears  are  rubbed. 

Old  Pluto  was  the  ministering  spirit  at  the  orgies  of  the  Wild 
Goose ;  and  such  orgies  as  took  place  there !  Such  drinking, 
singing,  whooping,  swearing  ;  with  an  occasional  interlude  of 
quarrelling  and  fighting.  The  noisier  grew  the  revel,  the  more 
uid  Pluto  i)ih'd  tlie  potations,  until  the  guests  would  become 
frantic  in  their  merriment,  smashing  every  thing  to  pieces,  and 
throwing  the  house  out  of  the  windows.  Sometimes,  after  a 
drinking  l)out,  they  sallied  forth  and  scoured  the  village,  to 
the  dismay  of  the  worthy  burghers,  who  gathered  their  women 
within  iloors,  and  would  have  shut  up  the  house.  Vanderscamp, 
however,  was  not  to  be  rebuffed.  He  insisted  on  renewing 
acquaintance  with  his  old  neigh!)ors,  and  on  introducing  his 
friends,  the  merchants,  to  their  families ;  swore  he  was  on  the 
look-out  for  a  wife,  and  meant,  before  he  stopped,  to  find  hus- 
bands for  all  their  daughters.  So,  will-yc,  nil-ye,  sociable  he 
was  ;  swaggered  al)0ut  their  best  parlors,  with  his  hat  on  one 
side  of  his  head  ;  sat  on  the  good  wife's  nicely-waxed  mahogany 
table,  kicking  his  heels  against  the  carved  and  polished  legs ; 
kissed  and  tousled  the  young  vrouws ;  and,  if  they  frowned  and 
pouted,  gave  tlu  m  a  gold  rosary,  or  a  sparkling  cross,  to  put 
them  in  gooil  hi.mor  again. 

Sometimes  nothing  wouhl  satisfy  him,  but  he  must  have  some 
of  his  old  neiglibors  to  diimer  at  the  Wild  Goose.  There  was 
no  refusing  him,  for  he  had  got  the  complete  upperhand  of 
the  community,  an<l  the  peaceful  l)urghers  all  stood  in  awe  of 
him.  But  what  a  time  would  the  quiet,  worthy  men  have, 
among  these  rake-hells,  who  would  delight  to  astound  them 
with  the  most  extravagant  gunpowder  tales,  embroidered  with 
all  kinds  of  foreign  oaths  ;  clink  the  can  with  them  ;  pledge 
them  in  deep  potations ;  bawl  drinking  songs  in  their  ears ; 
and  occasionally  fire  pistols  over  their  heads,  or  under  the  table, 
and  then  laugh  in  their  faces,  and  ask  them  how  they  liked  the 
smell  of  gunpowder. 

Thus  was  the  little  village  of  Communipaw  for  a  time  like 
the  unfortunate  wight  possessed  with  devils  ;  until  Vander- 
scamp and  his  brother  merchants  would  sail  on  another  trading 
voyage,  when  the  Wild  Goose  would  be  shut  up,  and  every  thing 
relapse  into  quiet,  only  to  be  disturbed  by  bis  next  visitation. 


PS. 


by  way  of 
infernal  re- 
m  the  bet- 
prcsHion  of 
a  petted 


f  the  Wild 
J  drinltiii}?, 
iterhide  of 
,  the  niort! 
uid  become 
pieces,  and 
es,  after  a 
village,  to 
heir  women 
uderseamp, 


II 


renewing 


)ducing  his 
was  on  the 
to  find  hu3- 
soeiable  lie 
lat  on  one 
I  mahogany 
ished  legs ; 
rowned  and 
ross,  to  put 

L  have  some 
There  was 
•perhand  of 
1  in  awe  of 
men  have, 
.ound  them 
lidered  with 
}m  ;  pledge 
their  ears ; 
•r  the  table, 
;y  liked  the 

a  time  like 
til  Vander- 
her  trading 
every  thing 
isitation. 


A   LEGEND  OF  COMUUNIPAW. 


101 


'l 


The  mystery  of  all  these  proceedings  graduallv  dawned  upon 
the  tardy  intellects  of  Communipaw.  These  were  the  times  of 
the  notorious  Captain  Kidd,  when  the  American  harbors  were 
the  resorts  of  piratical  adventurers  of  all  kinds,  who,  under  pre- 
text of  inercantil"  voyages,  scoured  the  West  Indies,  made  plun- 
dering descents  upon  the  Spanish  Main,  visited  even  the  remote 
Indian  Seas,  and  then  came  to  disi)osfe  of  their  booty,  have  their 
revels,  and  lit  out  new  expeditions,  in  the  Ei  glish  colonies. 

Vanders^'unp  liad  served  in  this  hopeful  school,  and  having 
risen  to  importance  among  the  buccaneers,  had  pitched  upon  his 
native  village  and  early  home,  as  a  quiet,  out-of-the-way,  un- 
suspected place,  where  he  and  his  comrades,  while  anchored  at 
New  York,  might  have  their  feasts,  and  concert  their  plans, 
without  molestation. 

At  length  the  attention  of  the  British  government  was  called 
to  these  piratical  enterpriseu,  that  were  becoming  so  frequent 
and  outrageous.  Vigorous  measures  were  taken  to  check  and 
punish  them.  Several  of  the  most  noted  freebooters  were 
caught  and  execute<l,  and  three  of  Vandcrscamp's  (jhosen  com- 
rades, the  most  riotous  swash-bucklers  of  the  Wild  Goose,  were 
hanged  in  chains  on  Gibbet  Island,  in  full  sight  of  their  favor- 
ite resort.  As  to  Vanderscamp  himsell',  he  and  his  man  Pluto 
again  disappeared,  and  it  was  hoped  by  the  people  of  Cora- 
munipaw  that  he  had  fallen  in  some  foreign  brawl,  or  been 
swung  on  some  foreign  gallows. 

For  a  time,  therefore,  the  tranquillity  of  the  village  was  re- 
stored ;  the  worthy  Dutchmen  once  more  smoked  their  pipes  in 
with  peculiar  complacency,  their  old   pests  and 


peace. 


eyinji, 


terrors,  the  pirates,  dangling  and  drying  in  the  sun,  on  Gibbet 
Island. 

This  perfect  calm  was  doomed  at  length  to  be  ruffled.  The 
fiery  persecution  of  the  pirates  gradually  subsided.  Justice 
was  satisfied  with  the  examples  that  had  been  made,  and  there 
was  no  more  talk  of  Kidd,  and  the  other  heroes  of  like  kidney. 
On  a  calm  summer  evening,  a  boat,  somewhat  heavily  laden, 
was  seen  pulling  into  Communipaw.  What  was  the  surprise 
and  disquiet  of  the  inhabitants,  to  see  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp 
seated  at  the  helm,  and  his  man  Pluto  tugging  at  the  oars ! 
Vanderscamp,  however,  was  apparently  an  altered  man.  He 
brought  home  with  him  a  wife,  who  seemed  to  be  a  shrew,  and 
to  have  the  upper  hand  of  him.  He  no  longer  was  the  swagger- 
ing, bully  ruflian,  but  affected  the  regular  merchant,  and  talked 
of  retiring  from  business,  and  settling  down  quietly,  to  pass  tht 
rest  of  his  days  in  his  native  place. 


i' 


!  I 


II    « 


I 


102 


WOLFEnrs  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


Tho  Wild  Goose  mansion  was  again  opened,  but  with  dimin^ 
ished  splendor,  and  no  riot.  It  is  true,  Vanderscamp  had  frc< 
quent  nautical  visitors,  and  the  sound  of  revelry  was  occasion- 
ally overheard  in  his  house  ;  but  every  thing  seemed  to  be  done 
imiler  the  rose ;  and  old  Pluto  was  the  only  sei-vant  that  olfl- 
ciated  at  these  orgies.  The  visitors,  indeed,  were  by  no  means 
of  the  turbulent  stamp  of  their  predecessors ;  but  quiet,  mys- 
terious traders,  full  of  nods,  and  winks,  and  hieroglyphi(! 
signs,  with  whom,  to  use  their  cant  phrase,  "  every  thing  was 
smug."  Their  ships  came  to  anchor  at  night  in  the  lower  bay  ; 
and,  on  a  private  signal,  Vanderscamp  would  launch  his  lK)at, 
and  accompanied  solely  by  his  man  Pluto,  would  make  them 
mysterious  visits.  Sometimes  boats  pulled  in  at  night,  in 
front  of  the  Wild  Goose,  and  various  articles  of  merchandise 
were  lauded  in  the  tlark,  and  spirited  away,  nobody  kui'w 
whither.  One  of  the  more  curious  of  the  inhabitants  kept 
watch,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  features  of  some  of  these 
night  visitors,  by  the  casual  glance  of  a  lantern,  and  declared 
that  he  recognized  more  than  one  of  the  freel)ooting  frequent- 
ers of  the  Wihl  Goose,  m  former  times ;  from  whence  he  con- 
cluded that  Vanderscamp  was  at  his  old  game,  and  that  tiiis 
mysterious  merchandise  was  nothing  more  nor  less  than  pirati- 
cal plunder.  The  more  charitable  opinion,  however,  was,  that 
Vanderscamp  and  his  comrades,  having  been  driven  from  their 
old  line  of  business,  by  the  "oppressions  of  government,"  had 
resorted  to  smuggling  to  make  both  ends  meet. 

Be  that  as  it  may :  I  come  now  to  the  extraordinary  fact, 
which  is  the  but-end  of  this  story.  It  happened  late  oni; 
night,  that  Yan  Yost  Vanderscamp  was  returning  across  the 
broad  bay,  in  his  light  skifif,  rowed  by  his  man  Pluto.  He  had 
been  carousing  on  board  of  a  vessel,  newly  arrived,  and  was 
somewhat  ol)fuscated  in  intellect,  by  the  liquor  he  had  imbibed. 
It  was  a  still,  sultry  night;  a  heavy  mass  of  lurid  clouds  was 
rising  in  the  west,  witii  the  low  muttering  of  distant  thunder. 
N'anderscamp  called  on  Pluto  to  pul)  lustily,  that  they  might  get 
home  before  the  gathering  storm.  The  old  negro  made  no  reply, 
but  shaped  his  course  so  as  to  skirt  the  rocky  shores  of  Gibbet- 
Island.  A  faint  creaking  overhead  caused  Vanderscamp  to  cast 
up  his  eyes,  when,  to  his  horror,  he  beheld  the  bodies  of  his  three 
pot  companions  and  brothers  in  iniquity  dangling  in  the  moon- 
light, their  rags  fluttering,  and  their  chains  creaking,  as  they 
were  slowly  swung  backward  and  forward  by  the  rising  breeze. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  you  blockhead  I  "  cried  Vanderscamp, 
"  by  pulling  so  close  to  the  island?  " 


A   LEG  EN  I)  OF  VOMMUNIPAW. 


lUit 


iment,"  had 


"  I  thought  youM  bo  p;hi(l  to  soe  your  old  friends  once  more," 
growled  the  negro;  ''you  were  never  afraid  of  a  livin.'  man, 
what  do  you  fear  from  the  dead?  "  " 

-  Who's  afraid?"  hiccoughed  Vanderscamp,  partly  lieated  hy 
liquor,  partly  nettled  by  the  jeer  of  the  negro  ;  "  who's  afraid ! 
Hang  me,  l)ut  I  would  be  ghul  to  see  them  once  more,  alive  or 
dead,  at  the  Wild  Goose.  Come,  my  huls  in  the  wind  !  "  con- 
tinued he,  taking  a  draught,  and  nourishing  the  bottle  above 
his  head,  ''here's  fair  weather  to  you  iu  the  other  world  ;  and 
if  you  should  be  walking  the  rounds  to-night,  odds  tish !  but  I'll 
be  happy  if  you  will  drop  in  to  supper." 

A  dismal  creaking  was  the  only  reply.  The  wind  l)lew  loud 
and  shrill,  and  as  it  whistled  round  the  gallows,  and  uimmg  the 
bones,  sounded  as  if  there  were  laughing  and  gibbering  ii"  the 
air.  Old  Pluto  chuckled  to  himself,  and  now  pulled  for  home. 
The  storm  burst  over  the  voyagers,  while  they  were  yet  far 
from  shore.  The  rain  fell  in  torrents,  the  thunder  crashed  and 
pealed,  and  the  lightning  kept  up  an  incessant  blaze.  It  was 
stark  midnight  before  they  landed  at  Communipaw. 

Dripping  and  shivering,  Vanderscamp  crawled  homeward. 
He  was  completely  sobered  by  the  storm ;  the  water  soaked 
from  without,  having  diluted  and  cooled  the  licjuor  within. 
Arriveil  at  the  Wild  Goose,  he  knocked  timidly  and  dubiously 
at  the  door,  for  he  dreaded  the  reception  he  was  to  experience 
from  his  wife.  He  had  reason  to  do  so.  She  met  him  at  the 
threshold,  iu  a  precious  ill  humor. 

"Is  this  a  time,"  said  she,  "to  keep  people  out  of  their 
beds,  and  to  bring  home  company,  to  turn  the  house  upside 
down?" 

"  Company?  "  said  Vanderscamp,  meekly :  "  I  have  brought 
no  company  with  me,  wife." 

"  No,  indeed !  they  have  got  here  before  you,  but  by  your 
invitation  ;  and  blessed-looking  company  they  are,  truly  I  " 

Vanderscamp's  knees  smote  together.  "For  the  love  of 
heaven,  where  are  they,  wife?" 

"Where?  —  why,  in  the  blue-room,  up-stairs,  making  thei»- 
selves  as  much  at  home  as  if  the  house  were  their  own." 

Vanderscamp  made  a  desperate  effort,  scranibled  up  to  the 
room,  and  threw  open  the  door.  Sure  enough,  there  at  a  table, 
on  which  burned  a  light  as  blue  as  brimstone,  sat  the  three 
guests  from  Gibbet  Island,  with  halters  round  their  necks,  and 
bobbing  their  cups  together,  ae  ■.  they  were  hob-or-nobbing, 
and  trolling  the  old  Dutch  freebooter's  glee,  since  tr»'>slated 
into  English : 


I   I 


In 


104 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES, 


u 


"  For  three  merry  tads  be  we, 
And  three  merry  lads  be  we ; 
I  aa  the  laud,  and  thoc  on  the  sand, 
And  Jack  on  the  gallowstree." 

Vanderscamp  saw  and  heard  no  more.  Starting  back  with 
horror,  be  missed  his  footing  on  the  hindiug-place,  and  fell 
from  the  top  of  the  stairs  to  the  bottom.  He  was  taken  up 
speechless,  and,  either  from  the  fall  or  the  fright,  was  Iniiicl 
in  the  yard  of  the  little  Dutch  church  at  Bergen,  on  the  fol- 
lowing Sunday. 

From  that  day  forward,  the  fate  of  the  Wild  Goose  was 
sealed.  It  was  pronounced  a  haunted  house^  and  avoided  ac- 
cordingly. No  one  inhabited  it  but  Vanderscamp's  shrew  of 
a  widow,  and  old  Pluto,  and  they  were  considered  but  little 
better  than  its  hobgob'in  visitors.  Pluto  grow  more  and  more 
haggard  and  morose,  aud  looked  more  like  an  imp  of  darkness 
than  a  human  being.  He  spoke  to  no  one,  but  went  about  mut- 
tering to  hihiSelf ;  or,  as  some  hinted,  talking  vith  the  (Icvil, 
who,  though  unseen,  was  ever  at  his  elbow.  Now  and  then  he 
was  seen  pulling  about  the  bay  alone,  in  his  skiff,  in  dark 
weather,  or  at  the  approach  of  night-fall ;  nobody  could  tell 
why,  unless  on  an  errand  to  invite  more  guests  frojn  the  gal- 
lows. Indeed  it  was  affirmed  that  the  Wild  Goose  still  con- 
tinued to  be  a  house  of  entertainment  for  such  guests,  ai.l  that 
on  stormy  nights,  the  blue-chamber  was  occasionally  illumi- 
nated, and  sounds  of  diabolical  merriment  were  overheard, 
mingling  with  the  howling  of  the  tempest.  Some  treated 
these  as  idle  stories,  until  on  one  such  night,  it  wao  about  the 
time  of  the  Kjuinox,  there  was  a  horrible  uproar  in  the  Wild 
Goose,  that  could  not  be  mistaken.  It  was  not  so  much  tlu' 
sound  of  revelry,  however,  as  strife,  with  two  or  three  piercing 
shrieks,  that  pervaded  every  part  of  the  village.  Nevertheless, 
no  one  thought  of  hastening  to  the  spot.  On  the  contrary,  the 
honest  burghers  of  Communipaw  drew  their  night-caps  over 
their  cars,  and  buried  their  heads  under  the  bed-clothes,  at  the 
thoughts  of  Vanderscamp  and  his  gallows  companions. 

The  next  morning,  some  of  the  bolder  and  more  curious 
undertook  to  reconnoitre.  All  was  quiet  and  lifeless  at  the 
Wild  Goose.  The  door  yawned  wide  open,  and  had  evidently 
been  open  all  night,  for  the  storm  had  beaten  into  the  house. 
Gathering  more  courage  from  the  silence  and  api)areut  deser- 
tion, they  gradually  ventured  over  the  threshold.  The  house 
had  indeed  the  air  of  having  been  possessed  by  devils.  Every 
thing  was   topsy-turvy ;    trunks   had   been   broken  open,  and 


13. 


THE  BERMUDAS. 


105 


back  with 

,  .and   foil 

=1  taki'n  up 

svati  Jnii'ic'l 

)n  the  fol- 

Oooso  was 
ivokk'il  ae- 
8  shrew  of 
I  but  little 
0  and  more 
f  daikui'ss 
about  nuit- 

the  devil, 
ind  then  he 
Cf,  in   dark 

could  tell 
in  the  gal- 
p;  still  con- 
s,  ai.d  that 
ally  illuiiii- 
overheard, 
mo  treated 
:  al)out  tl)e 
u  the  Wild 
)  much  the 
•ee  piercing 
?vcrtheless, 
)ntrary,  the 
-caps  over 
thes,  at  the 
s. 

ore  curious 
less  at  the 
d  evidently 

the  house. 

ireut  deser- 

The  house 

Is.      Evi'ry 

open,  and 


chests  of  drawers  and  corner  cupboards  turned  inside  out,  as 
in  a  time  of  general  sack  and  pillaire  ;  but  the  most  woful  sight 
was  the  widow  of  Yan  Yost  Vci.ivierscamp,  extended  a  corpse 
on  the  floor  of  the  blue-chamber,  with  the  marks  of  a  deadly 
gripe  on  the  wind-pipe. 

AH  now  was  conjecture  and  dismay  at  Communipaw ;  and 
the  disappearance  of  old  Pluto,  who  was  nowhere  to  he  found, 
gave  rise  to  all  kinds  of  wild  surmises.  Some  suggested  that 
the  negro  had  betrayed  the  house  to  some  of  V^'anderscamp's 
buccaneering  associates,  and  that  they  had  decamped  together 
with  the  booty ;  others  surmised  that  the  negro  was  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  a  devil  incarnate,  who  had  now  accom- 
plished his  ends,  and  made  off  with  his  dues. 

Events,  however,  vindicated  the  negro  from  this  last  imputa- 
tion. His  skiff  was  picked  up,  drifting  about  the  bay,  bot»om 
upward,  as  if  wrecked  in  a  tempest ;  and  his  body  was  found, 
shortly  afterward,  by  some  Communipaw  lishermen,  stnuided 
among  the  rocks  of  Gibbet  Island,  near  the  foot  of  the  pirates' 
gallows.  The  fishermen  shook  their  heads,  and  observed  that 
oid  Pluto  had  ventured  once  too  often  to  invite  Guests  from 
Gibbet  Island. 


THE  BERMUDAS. 

▲   SHAKSPEARIAN    RESEARCH  :    BY   THE   AUTHOR  OP  THE   SKETCH- 
BOOK. 

"  Who  did  not  think,  till  within  these  foure  yearcB,  but  that  these  islands  had  been 
rather  a  habiutlon  for  Divells,  than  lit  for  men  to  dwell  in?  Who  did  not  hate  the 
name,  when  hee  was  on  land,  and  shun  the  place  when  he  was  on  the  eeae?  But 
behold  the  ml8pri<»ion  and  conceits  of  the  world!  For  true  and  large  experience  hath 
now  told  U8,  K  is  one  of  the  sweetest  paradises  that  be  upon  earth."  — "A  Plainb 
Dbbcript.  of  thk  Babmudas:"  1613. 

In  the  course  of  a  voyage  home  from  England,  our  ship  had 
been  struggling,  for  two  or  three  weeks,  with  perverse  head- 
winds, and  a  stormy  sea.  It  was  in  the  month  of  May,  yet 
the  weather  had  at  times  a  wintry  sharpness,  and  it  was  ap- 
prehended that  we  were  in  the  neighborhood  of  floating  islands 
of  ice,  which  at  that  season  of  the  year  drift  out  of  the  Gulf  of 
Saint  Lawrence,  and  sometimes  occasion  the  wreck  of  noble 
ships. 

Wearied  out  by  the  continued  opposition  of  the  elements, 
our  captain  at  length  bore  away  to  the  south,  in  hopes  of 
catching  the  expiring  breath  of  the  trade-winds,  and  making 


i'* 


106 


WCLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


what  is  called  the  southern  passage.  A  few  days  wrought,  as 
it  were,  a  magical  "sea  change"  in  every  thing  around  us. 
We  seemed  to  emerge  into  a  ditrerent  world.  The  late  dark 
and  angry  sea,  lashed  up  into  roaring  and  swashing  surges, 
became  calm  and  sunny  ;  the  rude  winds  died  away  ;  and  grad- 
ually a  light  breeze  sprang  up  directly  aft,  filling  out  every 
sail,  and  wafting  us  smoothly  along  on  an  even  keel.  The  air 
softened  into  a  bland  and  delightful  temperature.  Dolphins 
began  to  play  about  us  ;  the  nautilus  came  floating  by,  like  a 
fair}'  ship,  with  its  mimic  sail  and  rainbow  tints  ;  and  flying- 
fish,  from  time  to  time,  made  their  short  excursive  flights,  and 
occasionally  fell  upon  the  deck.  The  cloaks  and  overcoats  in 
which  we  had  hitherto  wrapped  ourselves,  and  moped  about 
the  vessel,  were  thrown  aside ;  for  a  sunnner  warmth  had 
succeeded  to  the  late  wintry  chills.  Sails  were  stretched  as 
awnings  over  the  quarter-deck,  to  protect  us  from  the  mid-da}' 
sun.  Under  these  we  lounged  away  the  day,  in  luxurious 
indolence,  musing,  with  half-shut  eyes,  upon  the  quiet  ocean. 
The  night  was  scarcely  less  beautiful  than  the  day.  The 
rising  moon  sent  a  quivering  column  of  silver  along  the  undu- 
lating surface  of  the  def  p,  and,  gradually  climbing  the  heaven, 
lit  up  our  towering  toi^-sails  and  swelling  main-sails,  and  spread 
a  pale,  mysterious  light  aiound.  As  our  ship  made  her  whis- 
pering way  through  this  dreamy  world  of  waters,  every  bois- 
terous sound  on  board  was  charmed  to  silence ;  and  the  low 
whistle,  or  drowsy  song  of  a  sailor  from  the  forecastle,  or  the 
tinkling  of  a  guitar,  and  the  soft  warbling  of  a  female  voice 
from  the  quarter-f"eck,  seemed  to  derive  a  witching  melody 
from  the  scene  and  hour.  I  was  remind  d  '^f  Oberon's  exquis- 
ite description  of  music  aixv  moonlight  on  the  ocean  : 

"  Thou  reraerabereet 

Since  on;e  I  sat  upon  e  promontory, 
And  heard  a  mermaid  on  a  dolphin'R  back, 
Uttering  such  dulcet  and  harmonloun  broatb, 
That  the  rude  eea  grew  civil  at  her  song, 
And  certain  stars  shot  madly  from  their  spheres, 
To  hear  the  •ca-tuaid's  music." 


Indeed,  I  was  in  the  very  mood  to  conjure  up  all  the  imagi- 
nary beings  with  which  poetry  has  peopled  old  ocean,  and  almost 
ready  to  fancy  I  heard  rhe  distant  song  of  the  mei-iuaid,  or 
the  mellow  shell  of  the  tiiton,  and  to  picture  to  myself  Neptune 
and  Amphitrite  with  ftll  their  pageant  sweeping  along  the  dim 
horizon. 


nought,  as 
iiouud   us. 

late  dark 
iig  surgos, 

and  grad- 

out  every 

The  air 

Dolphins 

by,  like  a 
uh\  ttying- 
ligiits,  and 
'ercoats  in 
•ped  abont 
irnitli  had 
retehed  as 
le  raid-da}' 

luxurious 
liet  ocean, 
lay.      The 

the  undu- 
le  heaven, 
and  si)reatl 
'  her  whis- 
n-ery  bois- 
id  the  low 
5tle,  or  the 
male  voice 
ig  melody 
u's  exquis- 


THE  BERMUDAS. 


107 


the  imagi- 
iiud  almost 
.'rniaid,  or 
f  Neptune 
g  the  dim 


A  day  or  two  of  such  fanciful  voyaging  brought  us  in  siaht 
of  the  Bermudas,  which  first  looked  like  mere  summer  clouds, 
peering  above  the  quiet  ocean.  All  day  we  glided  along  in 
sight  of  thein,  with  just  wind  enough  to  till  our  sails;  and 
never  did  land  appear  more  lovely.  They  were  clad  in  eme- 
rald verdure,  beneath  the  sereuest  of  skies  :  not  an  angry  wave 
broke  upon  their  quiet  shores,  and  small  fishing  craft,  riding 
on  the  crystal  waves,  seemed  as  if  hung  in  air.  It  was  such 
a  scene  that  Fletcher  pictured  to  himself,  when  he  extolled 
the  halcyon  let  of  the  fisherman : 

"  Ah !  would  thou  knewest  how  much  It  better  were 
To  bide  among  the  simple  fiaher-awaiDS  : 
No  shrieljiiig  owl,  no  nightcrow  iodgeth  here, 
Nor  ia  our  Hiiuple  pleasure  mixed  with  paius. 
Our  sportH  begin  with  the  beginning  year; 
In  calms,  to  pull  the  leaping  fiah  to  land. 
In  roughs,  to  s.r;?  and  dunce  along  the  yelljw  iand." 

In  contemplating  these  beautiful  islands,  and  the  peaceful 
sea  around  them,  I  could  hardly  realize  that  these  were  the 
"still  vex'd  Bermoothes"  of  Shakspeare,  once  the  dread  of 
mariners,  and  infamous  in  the  narratives  of  the  early  dis- 
coverers, for  the  dangers  and  disasters  which  beset  them. 
Such,  however,  was  the  case  ;  and  the  islands  derived  additional 
interest  in  my  eyes,  from  fancying  that  I  could  trace  in  their 
early  history,  and  in  the  superstitious  notions  connected  with 
them,  some  of  the  elements  of  Shakspeare's  wild  and  beautiful 
drama  of  the  Tempest.  I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  citing  a  few 
historical  facts,  in  support  of  this  idea,  which  may  claim  some 
additional  attention  from  the  American  reader,  as  being  con- 
nected with  tiie  first  settlement  of  Virginia. 

At  the  time  when  Shakspeare  was  in  the  fulness  of  his  talent, 
and  seizing  upon  every  thing  that  could  furnish  aliment  to  his 
imagination,  the  colonization  of  Virginia  wai*  a  favorite  object 
of  entei  [)rise  among  people  of  condition  in  England,  and  several 
of  the  courtiers  of  the  court  of  Queen  Elizabeth  were  personally 
engaged  in  it.  In  the  year  1609  a  noble  armament  of  nine 
ships  and  five  bundled  men  sailed  for  the  relief  of  the  colony. 
It  was  commanded  by  Sir  George  Somers,  as  admiral,  a  gallant 
and  generous  gentleman,  above  sixty  years  of  age,  and  pos- 
sessed of  an  ample  fortune,  yet  still  bent  i';-on  hardy  enter- 
prise, and  ambitious  of  signalizing  himself  in  the  service  of  his 
country. 

On  board  of  his  flag-ship,  the  Sea-Vulture,  sailed  also  Sit 


* 


Iw 


; 
I     » 


108 


WOLFERT'S  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


i 


Thomas  Gates,  lieutenant-general  of  the  colony.  The  voyage 
was  long  and  boisterous.  On  the  twenty-fifth  of  July,  the 
admiral's  ship  was  separated  from  the  rest,  in  a  hurricane.  For 
several  days  she  was  driven  about  at  the  mercy  of  the  elements, 
and  so  strained  and  racked,  that  her  seams  yawned  open,  and 
her  hold  was  half  filled  with  water.  The  storm  subsided,  but 
left  her  a  mere  foundering  wreck.  The  crew  stood  in  the  hold 
to  their  waists  in  water,  vainly  endeavoring  to  bail  her  with 
kettles,  buckets,  and  other  vessels.  The  leaks  rapidly  gained 
on  them,  while  their  strength  was  as  rapidly  declining.  They 
lost  all  hope  of  keeping  the  ship  afloat,  until  they  should  reach 
the  American  coast ;  and  wearied  with  fruitless  toil,  deU'imined, 
in  their  despair,  to  give  up  all  farther  attempt,  shut  down  the 
hatches,  and  aljandon  themselves  to  Providence.  Some,  who 
had  spirituous  liquors,  or  "  comfortable  waters,"  as  the  old 
record  quaintly  terms  them,  brought  them  forth,  and  shared 
them  with  their  comrades,  and  they  all  drank  a  sad  farewell  to 
one  another,  as  men  who  were  soon  to  part  company  in  this 
world. 

In  this  moment  of  extremity,  the  worthy  admiral,  who  kept 
sleepless  watch  from  the  high  stern  of  the  vessel,  gave  the 
thrilling  cry  of  ''  land  !  "  All  rushed  on  deck,  in  a  frenzy  of 
joy,  and  ni  :hing  now  was  to  be  seen  or  heard  on  board,  but 
the  transports  of  men  who  felt  as  if  rescued  from  the  grave. 
It  is  true  the  land  in  sight  would  not,  in  ordinary  circumstances, 
have  inspired  mucli  self-gratulation.  It  could  be  nothing  else 
but  the  grouj)  of  islands  called  after  their  discoverer,  one  Juan 
Bermudas,  a  Spaniard,  l)ut  stigmatized  among  the  mariners  of 
those  ckiys  as  "  the  islands  of  devils  !  "  "  For  the  islands  of 
the  Bermudas,"  says  the  old  narrative  of  this  voyage,  "as 
every  man  kuoweth  that  hath  heard  or  read  of  tliem,  were  never 
inhabited  by  any  Christian  or  heathen  ixiople,  but  were  ever 
esteemed  and  reputed  a  most  prodigious  and  inchanted  place, 
affordin"  nothing  but  gusts,  stormes,  and  foul  weather,  which 
made  every  navigator  and  mariner  to  avoide  them,  as  Scylla  and 
Charybdis,  or  as  they  would  shun  the  Divell  himself."  ' 

Sir  George  Somers  and  his  tempest- tossed  comrades,  how- 
ever, hailed  them  with  rapture,  as  if  they  had  been  a  terrestrial 
paradise.  Every  sail  was  spread,  and  every  ejcertion  made  to 
urge  the  foundering  ship  to  land.  Before  long,  she  struck  upon 
a  rock.  Fortunately,  the  late  stormy  winds  had  subsided,  and 
there  was  no  surf.     A  swelliu":  wave  lifted    her  from  oflf  the 


1  <*  A  rikiue  DeicripUuQ  ot  the  BanaudM.' 


he  voyage 

July,  the 

ane.     For 

elements, 

open,  and 

)8ided,  but 

u  the  hold 

her  with 

[Uy  gained 

ng.     They 

ould  reach 

etermined, 

down  tlie 

jome,  who 

IS   the  old 

lud  shared 

farewell  to 

Luy  in  this 

,  who  kept 

gave   the 

,  frenzy  of 

board,  but 

the  grave. 

urastances, 

othiug  else 

,  one  Juan 

nariners  of 

islands  of 

>yage,  "  as 

were  never 

were  ever 

11  ted  place, 

ther,  which 

Scylla  and 

ades,  how- 
i  terrestrial 
>n  made  to 
itruck  upon 
jsided,  and 
oiu  off  the 


THE  BERMUDAS. 


109 


rock,  and  bore  her  to  another ;  and  thus  she  was  borne  on  from 
rock  to  rock,  until  she  leuuiined  wedged  between  two,  as  firmly 
as  if  set  upon  the  stocks.     The  boats  were  immediately  lowered 
and,  though  the  shore  was  above  a  mile  distant,  the  whole  crew 
were  landed  in  safety. 

Every  one  had  now  his  task  assigned  him.  Some  made  all 
haste  to  unload  the  ship,  before  she  should  go  to  pieces ;  some 
constructed  wigwams  of  palmetto  leaves,  and  others  ranged  th« 
island  in  quest  of  wood  and  water.  To  their  surprise  and  joy, 
they  found  it  far  different  from  the  desolate  and  frightful  place 
they  had  been  taught,  by  seamen's  stories,  to  expect.  It  was 
well-wooded  and  fertile  ;  there  were  birds  of  various  kinds,  and 
herds  of  swine  roaming  about,  the  progeny  of  a  number  that 
had  swaik  ashore,  in  former  years,  from  a  Spanish  wreck.  The 
island  abounded  with  turtle,  and  great  quantities  of  their  eggs 
were  to  be  found  among  the  rocks.  The  bays  and  inlets  were 
full  of  lish ;  so  tame,  that  if  any  one  stepped  into  the  water, 
they  would  throng  around  him.  Sir  George  Somers,  in  a  little 
while,  caught  enough  with  hook  and  line  to  furnish  a  meal  to 
his  whole  ship's  company.  Some  of  them  were  so  large,  that 
two  were  as  much  as  a  man  could  carry.  Crawfish,  also,  were 
taken  in  abundance.  The  air  was  soft  and  salubrious,  and  the 
sky  beautifully  serene.  Waller,  in  his  "•  Summer  Islands,"  has 
given  us  a  faithful  pictui-e  of  the  climate  : 

"  For  the  kind  spring,  (which  but  galuteg  us  here,) 
lubabiu  these,  and  courts  them  all  the  year: 
Ripe  fruits  aud  blossoms  ou  the  same  trees  live; 
At  once  they  promise,  and  at  once  they  give : 
So  sweet  the  air,  so  moderate  the  clime, 
None  sickly  lives,  or  dies  before  his  time. 
Ileaven  sure  has  kept  this  spot  of  earth  uncuraed« 
To  shew  how  all  'hiugs  were  created  first." 

We  may  imagine  the  feelings  of  the  shipwrecked  mariners,  on 
Cnding  themselves  cast  by  stormy  seas  upon  so  happy  a  coast ; 
where  abundance  was  i  o  be  had  without  labor ;  where  what  in 
other  climes  constituted  the  costly  luxuries  of  the  rich,  wei« 
within  every  man's  reach  ;  aud  where  life  promised  to  be  a  mere 
holiday.  Many  of  the  common  sailors,  especially,  declared  they 
desired  no  better  lot  than  to  pass  the  rest  of  their  lives  on  this 
favored  island. 

The  eonnnuuders,  however,  were  not  so  ready  to  console  them- 
selves with  mere  physical  comforts,  for  the  severance  from  the 
enjoyment  of  cultivated  life,  and  all  the  objects  of  honorable 


!     : 


no 


WOLFERT*S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


i! 


ambition.  Despairing  of  the  arrival  of  any  chance  ship  on 
these  shunned  and  dreaded  islands,  they  fitted  out  the  long-l>oat, 
making  a  deck  of  the  ship's  hatches,  and  having  manned  her 
with  eight  picked  men,  despatched  her,  under  the  command  of 
an  able  and  hardy  mariner,  named  Raven,  to  proceed  to  Vir- 
ginia, and  procure  shipping  to  be  sent  to  their  relief. 

While  waiting  in  anxious  idleness  for  the  arrival  of  the  looked- 
for  aid,  dissensions  arose  between  Sir  George  Somers  and  Sir 
Thomas  Gates,  originating,  very  probably,  in  jealousy  of  the 
lead  which  the  nautical  experience  and  professional  station  of 
the  admiral  gave  him  in  the  present  emergency.  Each  com- 
mander, of  course,  had  his  adherents  :  these  dissensions  ripeneil 
into  a  complete  schism  ;  and  this  handful  of  shipwrecked  men, 
thus  thrown  together,  on  an  uninhabited  island,  separated  into 
two  parties,  and  lived  asunder  in  bitter  feud,  as  men  rendered 
fickle  by  prosperity  instead  of  being  brought  into  brotherhood 
by  a  common  calamity. 

Weeks  and  months  elapsetl,  without  bringing  the  looked-for 
aid  from  Virginia,  though  that  colony  was  within  but  a  few  days  ' 
sail.  Fears  were  now  entertained  that  the  long-boat  had  been 
either  swallowed  up  in  the  sea,  or  wrecked  on  some  savage 
coast;  one  or  other  of  which  most  probably  was  the  case,  as 
nothing  was  ever  heard  of  Raven  and  his  comrades. 

Each  party  now  set  to  work  to  build  a  vessel  for  itself  out  of 
the  cedar  with  which  the  island  alwunded.  The  wreck  of  the 
Sea- Vulture  furnished  rigging,  and  various  other  articles ;  but 
they  had  no  iron  for  bolts,  and  other  fastenings  ;  and  for  want 
of  pitch  and  tar,  they  payed  the  seams  of  their  vessels  with 
lime  and  turtle's  oil,  which  soon  dried,  and  became  as  hard  as 
stone. 

On  the  tenth  of  May,  IGIO,  they  set  sail,  having  been  about 
nine  months  on  the  island.  They  reached  Virginia  without 
furtiier  accident,  but  found  the  colony  in  great  distress  for  pro- 
visions. The  account  they  gave  of  the  abundance  that  reigned 
in  the  Bermudas,  and  especially  of  the  herds  of  swine  that 
roamed  the  island,  determined  Lord  Delaware,  the  governor 
of  Virginia,  to  send  thither  for  supplies.  Sir  George  Somers, 
with  his  wonted  promptness  and  generosity,  offered  to  under- 
take what  was  still  considered  a  dangerous  voyage.  Accord- 
ingly, on  the  nineteenth  of  June,  he  set  sail,  in  his  own  cedar 
vessel  of  thirty  tons,  accompanied  by  another  small  vessel,  com- 
manded by  Captain  Argall. 

The  gallant  Somers  was  doomed  again  to  be  tempest-tossed. 
His  companion  vessel  was  soon  driven  back  to  port,  but  he 


THE  BERMUDAS. 


Ill 


kept  the  sea ;  and,  as  usual,  remained  at  his  post  on  deck,  in 
all  weathers.  His  voyage  was  long  and  boisterous,  and  the 
fatigues  and  exposures  which  he  underwent,  were  too  much 
for  a  frame  impaired  I)y  age,  and  by  previous  hardsliips.  He 
arrived  at  Bermudas  completely  exhausted  and  broken  down. 

His  nephew.  Captain  Mathew  Somers,  attended  him  in  his 
illness  with  affectionate  assiduity.  Finding  his  end  approacli- 
ing,  the  veteran  called  his  men  together,  and  exhorted  them  to 
be  true  to  the  interests  of  Virginia ;  to  procure  provisions  witii 
all  possible  despatch,  and  hasten  back  to  the  relief  of  the 
colony. 

With  this  dying  charge,  he  gave  up  the  ghost,  leaving  his 
nephew  and  crew  overwiielmed  with  grief  and  consternation. 
Their  first  thought  was  to  pay  honor  to  his  remains.  Opening 
the  body,  they  took  out  the  heart  and  entrails,  and  buried  them, 
erecting  a  cross  over  the  grave.  They  then  embalmed  the 
l)ody,  and  set  sail  with  it  for  England  ;  thus,  while  paying  empty 
honors  to  their  deceased  commander,  neglecting  his  earnest 
wish  and  dying  inj  ;nction,  that  they  should  return  with  relief 
to  Virginia. 

The  little  bark  arrived  safely  at  Whitechurch,  in  Dorsetshire, 
with  its  melancholy  freight.  The  body  of  the  worthy  Homers 
was  interred  with  the  military  honors  due  to  a  brave  soldier, 
and  many  volleys  were  fired  over  his  grave.  The  Bermudas 
have  since  received  the  name  of  the  Somer  Islands,  as  a  tribute 
to  his  memory. 

The  accounts  given  by  Captain  Mathew  Somera  and  his  crew 
of  the  delightful  climate,  and  the  great  beauty,  fertility,  and 
abundance  of  these  islands,  excited  the  zeal  of  enthusiasts, 
and  the  cupidity  of  sijeoulators,  and  a  plan  was  set  on  foot  to 
colonize  them.  The  Virginia  company  sold  their  right  to  the 
islands  to  one  hundred  and  twenty  of  their  own  members,  who 
erected  tliemselves  into  a  distinct  corporation,  under  the  name  of 
the  "  Somer  Island  Society ;  "  and  Mr.  Richard  More  was  sent 
out,  in  1612,  as  governor,  with  sixty  men,  to  found  a  colony: 
and  this  leads  me  to  the  second  branch  of  this  research. 


\  i^-: 


\    ■ 


i>  ( 


THE  THREE  KINGS  OF  BERMUDA. 

AND   THEIR   TREASURE   OF   AMBERGRIS. 

At  the  time  that  Sir  George  Somers  was  preparing  to  launch 
his  cedar-built  bark,  and  sail  for  Virginia,  there  were  three  cul- 
prits among  his  men,  who  had  been  guilty  of  capital  offences. 


112 


WOLFEET'S  JtOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


One  of  them  was  shot ;  the  others,  named  Christopher  Cartei 
and  Edward  Waters,  escaped.  Waters,  indeed,  made  a  very 
narrow  escape,  for  he  had  actually  been  tied  to  a  tree  to  be 
executed,  but  cut  the  rope  with  a  knife,  which  he  had  con- 
cealed about  his  person,  and  fled  to  the  woods,  where  he  was 
loined  by  Carter.  These  two  worthies  kept  themselves  con- 
cealed in  the  secret  parts  of  the  island,  until  the  departure  of 
the  two  vessels.  When  Sir  George  Somers  revisited  the  island, 
in  quest  of  supplies  for  the  Virginia  colony,  these  culprits 
hovered  about  the  landing  place,  and  succeeded  in  persuading 
another  seaman,  named  Edward  Chard,  to  join  them,  giving 
him  the  most  seductive  pictures  of  the  ease  and  abundance  in 
which  they  revelled. 

When  the  bark  that  bore  Sir  George's  body  to  England  had 
faded  from  the  watery  horizon,  these  three  vagabonds  walked 
forth  in  their  majesty  and  might,  the  lords  and  sole  inhabitants 
of  these  islands.  For  a  time  their  little  commonwealth  went  on 
prosperously  and  happily.  They  built  a  house,  sowed  corn, 
and  the  seeds  of  various  fruits ;  and  having  plenty  of  hogs, 
wild  fowl,  and  fish  of  all  kinds,  with  turtle  in  abundance,  car- 
ried on  their  tripartite  sovereignty  with  great  harmony  and  much 
feasting.  All  kingdoms,  however,  are  doomed  to  revolution, 
convulsion,  or  decay ;  and  so  it  fared  with  the  empire  of  the 
three  kings  of  Bermuda,  albeit  they  were  monarchs  without 
subjects.  In  an  evil  hour,  in  their  search  after  turtle,  among 
the  fissures  of  the  rocks,  they  came  upon  a  great  treasure  of 
ambergris,  which  had  been  cast  on  shore  by  the  ocean.  Beside 
a  number  of  pieces  of  smaller  dimensions,  there  was  one  great 
mass,  the  largest  that  had  ever  been  known,  weighing  eighty 
pounds,  and  which  of  itself,  according  to  the  maiket  value  of 
ambergris  in  those  days,  was  worth  about  nine  or  ten  thou- 
sand pounds ! 

From  that  moment,  the  happiness  and  harmony  of  the  three 
kings  of  Bermuda  were  gone  forever.  While  poor  devils,  with 
nothing  to  share  but  the  common  blessings  of  the  island,  which 
administered  to  present  enjoyment,  but  had  nothing  of  convert- 
ible value,  they  were  loving  and  united ;  but  here  was  actual 
wealth,  which  would  make  them  rich  men,  whenever  they  could 
transport  it  to  a  market. 

Adieu  the  delights  of  the  island  !  They  now  became  flat  and 
insipid.  Each  pictured  to  himself  the  consequence  he  might 
now  aspire  to,  in  civilized  life,  could  he  once  get  there  with 
this  mass  of  ambergris.  No  longer  a  poor  Jack  Tar,  frolick- 
ing in  the  low  taverns  of  Wappiug,  he  might  roll  tiirough  Lon* 


her  Cartel 
ade  a  very 
tree  to  be 
»  had  con- 
ere  he  was 
elves  cou- 
jparture  of 
the  island, 
36  culprits 
persuading 
em,  giviug 
indance  iu 

igland  had 
jds  walked 
iuhabitauts 
th  went  on 
wed  corn, 
r  of  hogs, 
;]ance,  car- 
r  and  much 
revolution, 
)ire  of  the 
hs  without 
tie,  among 
ireasure  of 
Q.  Beside 
1  one  great 
ing  eighty 
it  value  of 
ten  thou- 

the  three 
levils,  with 
ind,  which 
•f  convert- 
(vas  actual 
they  could 

le  flat  and 
he  might 
there  with 
ir,  frolick- 
>ugh  Lon* 


THE  BERMUDAS. 


118 


don  in  his  coach,  and  perchance  arrive,  like  Whittington,  at  the 
dignity  -^f  Lord  Mayor. 

With  riches  came  envy  and  covetousness.  Each  was  now 
for  assuming  the  supreme  power,  and  getting  the  monopoly  of 
the  ambergris.  A  civil  war  at  length  broke  out :  Chard  and 
Waters  defied  each  other  to  mortal  combat,  and  the  kingdom 
of  the  Bermudas  was  on  the  point  of  being  deluged  with  royal 
blood.  Fortunately,  Carter  took  no  part  in  the  bloody  feud. 
Ambition  might  have  made  him  view  it  with  secret  exultation ;  for 
if  either  or  both  of  the  brother  potentates  were  slain  in  the  con- 
flict, he  would  be  a  gainer  in  purse  and  ambergris.  But  he 
dreaded  to  be  left  alone  in  this  uninhabited  island,  and  to  find 
himself  the  monarch  of  a  solitude  :  so  he  secretly  purloined  and 
hid  the  weaix)ns  of  the  belligerent  rivals,  who,  having  no  means 
of  carrying  on  the  war,  gradually  cooled  down  into  a  sullen 
armistice. 

The  arrival  of  Governor  More,  with  an  overpowering  force 
of  sixty  men,  put  an  end  to  the  empire.     He  took  possession  of 
the  kingdom,  in  the  name  of  the  Somer  Island  Company,  and 
forthwith  proceeded  to  make  a  settlement.     The  three  kings 
tacitly  relinquished  their  sway,  but  stood  up  stoutly  for  their 
treasure.     It   was  determined,   however,  that  they  had  been 
fitted  out  at  the  expense,  and  employed  in  the  service,  of  the 
Virginia  Company ;  that  they  had  found  the  ambergris  while  in 
the  service  of  that  company,  and  on  that  company's  land ;  that 
the  ambergris,  therefore-  belonged  to  that  company,  or  rather 
to  the  Somer  Island  company,  in  consequence  of  their  recent 
purchase  of   the  island,  and  all  their  appurtenances.     Having 
thus  legally  established  their  right,  and  being  moreover  able  to 
back  it  by  might,  the  company  laid  the  lion's  paw  upon  the 
six)il;   and  nothing   more   remains  on  historic  record  of  the 
Three  Kings  of  Bermuda,  and  their  treasure  of  ambergris. 


The  reader  will  now  determine  whether  I  am  more  extrava- 
gant than  most  of  the  commentators  on  Shakspeare,  in  my  sur- 
mise that  the  story  of  Sir  George  Somers'  shipwreck,  and  the 
subsequent  occurrences  that  took  place  on  the  unmhabited  island, 
may  have  furnished  the  bard  with  some  of  the  elements  of  hia 
drama  of  the  Tempest.  The  tidings  of  the  shipwreck,  and  of 
the  incidents  connected  with  it,  reached  England  not  long 
before  the  production  of  this  drama,  and  made  a  great  sensa- 
tion there.     A  narrative  of  the  whole  matter,  from  which  moat 


,  .< 


j,l 


u 


114         WOLFKRT*S  nOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 

of  the  foregoing  particulars  are  extracted,  "vas  published  at  the 
time  in  London,  in  a  pamphlet  form,  and  'd  not  fail  to  he 
eagerly  perused  by  Shakspeare,  and  to  mak  :  'vid  impression 
on  his  fancy.  His  expression,  in  the  Temp,  .,  of  "  the  still 
vex'd  Bermoothes,"  accords  exactly  with  the  storm-beaten  char- 
acter of  those  islands.  The  enchantments,  too,  with  which  in 
has  clothed  the  island  of  Prospero,  may  they  not  be  traced  to 
the  wild  and  sui^crstitious  notions  entertained  about  the  Hernui- 
dtts  ?  I  have  already  cited  two  passages  from  a  pamphlet  pub- 
lished at  the  time,  showing  that  they  were  esteemed  "  a  most 
prodigious  and  inchanted  place,"  and  the  "  habitation  of 
divcUs ;  "  and  another  pamphlet,  published  shortly  afterward, 
observes:  "And  whereas  it  is  reported  that  this  land  of  tho 
Barmudas,  with  the  islands  about,  (which  are  many,  at  least 
a  hundred,)  are  inchanted  and  kept  with  evil  and  wicked  spirits, 
it  is  a  most  idle  and  false  report."  * 

The  description,  too,  given  in  the  same  pamphlets,  of  thi' 
real  beauty  and  fertility  of  the  Bermudas,  and  of  their  sori'iic 
and  happy  climate,  so  opposite  to  the  dangerous  and  inhospitahlo 
character  with  which  they  had  been  stigmatized,  accords  with 
the  eulogium  of  Sebastian  on  the  island  of  Prospero : 

"Though  this  island  seem  to  be  desert,  uninhabitable,  and  almost  inaccesBiblo,  It 
must  needr;  be  of  subtle,  tender,  aud  delicate  temperance.  The  air  breathes  upon  u* 
here  most  sweetly.  Here  is  every  thing  advantageous  to  life.  How  lush  and  lusty  the 
grau  looks  I  bow  green !  " 

I  think  too,  in  the  exulting  consciousness  of  ease,  security, 
and  abundance  felt  by  the  late  tempest-tossed  mariners,  wliile 
revelling  in  the  plenteousness  of  the  island,  aud  their  inclina- 
tion to  remain  there,  released  from  the  labors,  the  cares,  and 
the  artificial  restrains  of  civilized  life,  I  can  see  something  of 
the  golden  commonwealth  of  honest  Gonzalo : 

i  "  Had  I  plantation  of  this  isle,  my  lord, 

And  were  the  liing  of  it,  what  would  I  do? 
I*  the  commonwealth  I  would  by  contrariea 
Execute  all  things  :  for  no  liind  of  traffic 
Would  I  admit ;  no  name  of  magistrate : 
Letters  should  not  be  Itnown ;  riches,  poverty, 
And  use  of  service,  none ;  contract,  succession, 
Bourn,  bound  of  land,  tilth,  vineyard,  none: 
No  use  of  metal,  norn^  or  wine,  or  oil : 
No  occupation;  all  men  idle,  all. 


••Newes  from  the  Barmudaa;"  1012. 


IE8. 

islied  at  the 
)t  fail  to  |)i> 
'I  inipregsioii 
f  "  the  still 
beaten  clitir- 
ith  which  Ik 
)e  traced  to 

the  lierniu- 
mphlet  pub- 
ed  '*  a  most 
ibitation  of 
f  afterward, 
hind  of  the 
ny,  at  least 
eked  spirits, 

lets,  of  the 
their  serene 
inhospitable 
ccords  with 


I  InacceBslblo,  it 
rvathcH  upon  u« 
ib  and  luoty  tliu 


se,  security, 
■iuers,  while 
leir  inelina- 
cares,  and 
'inethiug  of 


PELAYO  AND   THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER.     115 

AH  thing!  In  common,  nttnre  thonld  produce, 
Without  Hweat  or  endeavor :    Trewon,  f.-loDy, 
Hword,  pikp,  ktiifp,  gun,  or  iieeu  »i  any  engine. 
Would  1  not  hHv<s  liut  natureNhould  bring  forth. 
Of  Itii  own  liind,  all  foizon,  all  abundance, 
To  feed  my  innocent  people." 

Rut  above  all,  in  the  three  fugitive  vagabonds  who  remained 
in  possession  of  the  island  of  Bermuda,  on  the  departure  of 
their  comrades,  and  in  their  squabbles  about  supremacy,  on  the 
finding  of  their  treasure,  1  see  typified  Sebastian,  Trinculo,  and 
their  worthy  companion  Caliban  : 

'•  Trincnio,  the  king  and  all  our  company  being  drowned,  we  will  inherit  here." 
"  Monster,  1  will  kill  tlii«  man  ;  hU  daughter  and  I  will  bo  king  and  queen,  (gave  our 
grace*!)  and  Trinculo  and  thyHolf  shall  be  viceroyg." 

I  do  not  mean  to  hold  up  the  incidents  and  characters  in  the 
narrative  and  in  the  play  as  parallel,  or  as  being  strikingly 
similar :  neither  would  I  insinuate  that  the  narrative  suggested 
the  play  ;  1  would  only  suppose  that  Shakspeare,  being  occupied 
about  that  time  on  the  drama  of  the  Tempest,  the  main  story  of 
which,  I  believe,  is  of  Italian  origin,  had  many  of  the  fanciful 
ideas  of  it  suggested  to  his  mind  by  the  shipwreck  of  Sir  George 
Somers  on  the  "  still  vex'd  Be.moothes,"  and  by  the  popular 
superstitions  connected  with  these  islands,  and  suddenly  put 
iu  circulation  by  that  event. 


PELAYO  AND  THE  MERCHANT'S  DAUGHTER. 

BY   THE   AUTHOR   OF   THE   SKETCH-BOOK. 

It  is  the  common  lamentation  of  Spanish  historiographers, 
that,  for  an  obscure  and  melancholy  space  of  time  immediately 
succeeding  the  conquest  of  their  country  by  the  Moslems,  its 
history  is  a  mere  wilderness  of  dubious  facts,  groundless  fables, 
and  rash  exaggerations.  Learned  men,  in  cells  and  cloisters, 
have  worn  out  their  lives  in  vainly  endeavoring  to  connect  in- 
congruous events,  and  to  account  for  startling  improbabilities, 
recorded  of  this  period.  The  worthy  Jesuit,  Padre  Abarca, 
declares  that,  for  more  than  forty  years  during  which  he  had 
been  employed  in  theological  controversies,  he  had  never  found 
any  so  obscure  and  inexplicable  as  those  which  rise  out  of  thia 


i'H 


^  -; 


[-: 


116 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


A 


4 


portion  of  Spanish  history,  and  that  tlie  only  fruit  of  an  indp. 
fatigable,  prolix,  and  even  prodigious  study  of  the  8ul)joet,  was 
a  melancholy  and  mortifying  state  of  indecision.* 

During  this  apocryplial  period,  flourislKMl  I'ki-avo,  the  deliv- 
erer of  Spain,  whose  name,  like  thj»t  of  William  Wallace,  will 
ever  be  linked  with  the  glory  of  his  country,  but  linked,  in  like 
manner,  by  a  bond  in  which  fact  and  fiction  are  inextrieal)ly 
interwoven. 

The  quaint  old  chronicle  of  the  Moor  Rasis,  which,  thougli 
wild  and  fanciful  in  the  extreme,  is  frequently  drawn  upon  for 
early  facts  by  Spanish  historians,  professes  to  give  the  birth, 
parentage,  and  whole  course  of  fortune  of  Pelayo,  without  the 
least  doubt  or  hesitation.  It  makes  him  a  son  of  the  Duke  of 
Cantabria,  and  descended,  lx)th  by  father  and  mother's  side, 
from  the  Gothic  kings  of  Spain.  I  shall  pass  over  the  romantic 
story  of  his  childhootl,  and  shall  content  myself  with  a  scene  of 
his  youth,  which  was  spent  in  a  castle  among  the  Pyrenees, 
under  the  eye  of  his  widowed  and  noble-minded  mother,  who 
caused  him  to  be  instructed  in  every  thing  befitting  a  cavalier  of 
gentle  birth.  While  the  sons  of  the  nobility  were  revelling 
amid  the  pleasures  of  a  licentious  court,  and  sunk  in  that  vicious 
and  effeminate  indulgence  which  led  to  the  perdition  of  unhappy 
Spain,  the  youthful  Pelayo,  in  his  rugged  mountain  school,  was 
steeled  to  all  kinds  of  hardy  exercise.  A  great  part  of  liia 
time  was  spent  in  hunting  the  bears,  the  wild  boars,  and  the 
wolves,  with  which  the  Pyrenees  alxiunded  ;  and  so  purely  and 
chastely  was  he  brought  up,  by  his  good  lady  mother,  tliat,  if 
the  ancient  chronicle  from  which  1  draw  my  facts  may  be  relied 
on,  he  had  attained  his  one-and-twentieth  year,  without  having 
once  sighed  for  woman  ! 

Nor  were  his  hardy  contests  confined  to  the  wild  beasts  of 
the  forest.  Occasionally  he  had  to  contend  with  adversaries 
of  a  more  formidable  character.  The  skirts  and  defiles  of  these 
border  mountains  were  often  infested  by  marauders  from  the 
Gallic  plains  of  Gascony.  Thb  Gascons,  says  an  old  chronicler, 
were  a  people  who  used  smooth  words  when  expedient,  but 
force  when  they  had  power,  and  were  ready  to  lay  their  hands 
on  every  thing  they  met.  Though  poor,  they  were  proud  ;  for 
there  was  not  one  who  did  not  pride  himself  on  being  a  hijo- 
dalgo,  or  the  son  of  somebody. 

At  the  head  of  a  band  of  these  needy  hijodalgos  of  Gascony, 
was  one  Arnaud,  a  broken-down  cavalier.      He  and  four  of  hia 


*  Paabb  Pidro  Abarca.    Anale*  de  AraxoD,  AdU  Begn*,  {  2. 


lES. 

of  an  indo- 
subject,  was 

<>,  tho  (loliv- 

rVjillacp,  will 

iked,  in  like 

inextricably 

hich,  thoufrh 

vn  upon  for 

e  tlie  birth, 

without  tho 

the  Duke  of 

Jther's  side, 

the  romantic 

h  a  scene  of 

e   Pyrenees, 

mother,  who 

a  cavalier  of 

re   revelling 

that  vicious 

I  of  unhappy 

school,  was 

part  of  his 

ivrs,  and  the 

)  purely  and 

ther,  that,  if 

lay  l)e  relied 

hout  having 

Id  beasts  of 
adversaries 
lies  of  these 
rs  from  the 
1  chronicler, 
)edient,  but 
their  hands 
proud ;  for 
eing  a  hijo- 

)f  Gascony, 
four  of  hig 


PELAYO  AND   THE  MERCnANT'S  DAUCnTER.     117 

followers  were  well  armed  and  mounted  ;  the  rest  were  a  net  of 
scamper-grounds  on  foot,  furnished  with  darts  and  javelins. 
They  were  tho  terror  of  the  border ;  here  to-day  and  gone  to- 
morrow ;  sometimes  in  one  pass,  sometimes  in  another.  They 
would  make  sudden  inroads  into  Spain,  scour  the  roads,  plunder 
the  country,  and  were  over  the  mountains  and  far  away  Injfore 
a  force  could  l>e  collected  to  pursue  them. 

Now  it  happened  one  day,  that  a  wealthy  burgher  of  Bor- 
deaux, who  was  a  merchant,  trading  with  Biscay,  set  out  on  a 
journey  for  that  province.  As  he  intended  to  sojourn  there 
for  a  season,  he  took  with  him  his  wife,  who  was  a  goodly 
dame,  and  his  daughter,  a  gentle  damsel,  of  marriageable  age, 
and  exceeding  fair  to  look  upon.  He  was  attended  by  a  trusty 
clerk  from  his  comptoir,  and  a  man  servant ;  while  another 
servant  led  a  hackney,  laden  with  bags  of  money,  with  which  he 
intended  to  purchase  merchandise. 

When  the  (Ijiscons  heard  of  this  wealthy  merchant  and  his 
convoy  passing  through  the  mountains,  they  thanked  their  stars, 
for  they  considered  all  peaceful  men  of  traffic  as  lawful  spoil, 
sent  by  providence  for  the  benefit  of  hidalgos  like  themselves, 
of  valor  and  gentle  blood,  who  live  by  the  sword.  Placing 
themselves  in  ambush,  in  a  lonely  dctile,  by  which  the  travellers 
had  to  pass,  they  silently  awaited  their  coming.  In  a  little 
while  they  Ixjheld  them  approaching.  The  merchant  was  a 
fair,  ix)rtly  man,  in  a  buff  surcoat  and  velvet  cap.  His  looks 
l)e8poke  the  good  cheer  of  his  native  city,  and  he  was  mounted 
on  a  stately,  well-fetl  steed,  while  his  wife  and  daughter  paced 
gently  on  pallreys  by  his  side. 

The  travellers  had  advanced  some  distance  in  the  defile, 
when  the  Bandoleros  rushed  forth  and  assailed  them.  The 
merchant,  though  but  little  used  to  the  exercise  of  arms,  and 
unwieldy  in  his  form,  yet  made  valiant  defence,  having  his 
wife  and  daughter  and  money-bags  at  hazard.  He  was  wounded 
in  two  places,  and  overi>'^>wered  ;  one  of  his  servants  was  slain, 
the  other  took  to  flight. 

The  freebooters  then  began  to  ransack  for  spoil,  but  were  dis- 
apiwinted  at  not  finding  the  wealth  they  had  expected.  Put- 
ting their  swords  to  the  breast  of  the  trembling  merchant,  they 
demanded  where  he  had  concealed  his  treasure,  and  learned 
from  him  of  the  hackney  that  was  following,  laden  with  money. 
Overjoyed  at  this  intelligence,  they  l)ound  their  captives  to 
trees,  and  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  golden  spoil. 

On  this  same  day,  Pelayo  was  out  with  his  huntsmen  among 
the  UiOuntaius,  and  had  taken  his  stand  on  a  rock,  at  a  narrovt 


\ 


.   i 


I      I       T 


M 


118 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


/ 


»J 


■tl 


pass,  to  await  the  sallying  forth  of  a  wild  boar.  Close  b^  hiw 
was  a  page,  conducting  n  horse,  and  at  the  saddle-bow  hung 
his  armor,  for  he  was  always  prepared  for  fight  among  these 
border  mountains.  While  thus  posted,  the  servant  of  the  mer- 
chant came  flying  from  the  robl>ers.  On  beholding  Pelayo,  he 
fell  on  his  knees,  and  implored  his  1  fe,  for  he  supposed  him  to 
be  one  of  the  band.  It  was  some  time  before  he  could  be 
relieved  from  his  terror,  and  made  to  tell  his  story.  Wht-n 
Pelayo  heard  of  the  robl>ers,  he  concluded  they  were  the  crew 
of  Gascon  hidalgos,  upon  the  scamper.  Taking  his  armor  from 
the  page,  he  put  on  his  helmet,  slrng  his  buckler  round  his 
neck,  took  lanca  in  hand,  and  mounting  his  steed,  compelled 
the  trembling  servant  to  guide  him  to  the  scene  of  action.  At 
the  same  time  he  ordered  the  page  to  seek  his  huntsmen,  and 
summon  them  to  his  assistance. 

When  tlie  robbers  saw  Pelayo  advancing  through  the  forest, 
with  a  single  attendant  on  foot,  and  beheld  his  rich  armor 
sparkling  in  the  sun,  they  thought  a  new  prize  had  fallen  into 
their  hands,  and  Arnaud  and  two  of  his  companions,  mounting 
their  horses,  advancetl  to  meet  him.  As  they  approached, 
Pelayo  stationed  himself  in  a  narrow  pass  between  two  rocks, 
where  he  could  only  bo  assailed  in  front,  and  bracing  his  buck- 
ler, and  lowering  his  lance,  awaited  their  coming. 

"Who  and  what  are  ye,"  cried  he,  "and  what  seek  ye  in 
this  land?" 

"We  are  huntsmen,"  replietl  Aniaud,  "and  lo!  our  game 
runs  into  our  toils  !  " 

"By  my  faith,"  replied  Pelaj'o,  "thou  wilt  find  the  game 
more  readily  roused  than  taken  :  have  at  thee  for  a  vriiain  !  " 

So  saying,  he  put  spurs  to  his  hoi-se,  and  ran  full  s|)ted  uix)n 
him.  The  Gascon,  not  expecting  so  sudden  an  attack  from  a 
single  horseman,  was  taken  by  surprise.  He  hastily  couched 
his  lance,  but  it  merely  glanced  on  the  shield  of  Pelayo,  who 
sent  his  own  through  the  middle  of  his  l)reast,  and  threw  him 
out  of  his  saddle  to  the  earth.  One  of  the  other  robl>ers  made 
at  Pelayo,  and  wounded  him  slightly  in  tiie  side,  but  I'eci'ived  a 
blow  from  the  sword  of  the  latter,  which  cleft  his  skull-cap,  and 
sank  into  his  brain.  His  companion,  seeing  him  fall,  put  spurs 
to  his  stet'd,  and  galloped  off  through  the  forest. 

Beholding  several  other  robbers  on  foot  coming  up,  Pelayo 
returned  to  his  station  Iwtween  the  rocks,  where  he  was  as- 
sailed })y  them  all  at  once.  He  received  two  of  their  darts  on 
his  buckler,  a  javelin  razed  his  cuirass,  and  glancing  down, 
wounded  his  horse.     Pelayo  tlieu  rushed  forth,  and  struck  uue 


iES. 


PELAYO  AND  THE  MERCHANTS  DAUGHTER.     119 


!lose  by  him 
ie-bow  hung 
imong  these 
of  the  raer- 
;  Pehiyo,  he 
•osed  him  to 
le  could  he 
ory.  Wht'ii 
3re  the  crew 
armor  from 
r  round  his 
I,  compelled 
action.  At 
Qtsmen,  and 

1  the  forest, 
rich  armor 
I  fallen  into 
8,  mounting 
approached, 
I  two  rocks, 
ig  his  buck- 
seek  ye  in 


!   our  game 


d  the  game 
^Hlain  !  " 
si)ted  uix)n 
ta«'k  from  a 
ily  couched 
L'elayo,  who 
1  threw  him 
•bbers  made 
t  received  a 
uU-cap,  and 
1,  put  spurs 

up,  Pelayo 
he  was  as- 
eir  darts  on 
cing  down, 

struck  out' 


of  the  robbers  dead :  the  others,  beholding  several  huntsmen 
advancing,  took  to  flight,  but  were  pursued,  and  several  of  them 
taken. 

The  good  merchant  of  Bordeaux  and  his  family  beheld  this 
scene  with  trembling  and  amazement,  for  never  had  they  looked 
upon  such  feats  of  arms.  They  considered  Don  Pelayo  as  a 
leader  of  some  rival  band  of  robbers ;  and  when  the  bonds  were 
loosed  by  which  they  wery  tied  to  the  trees,  they  fell  at  his  feet 
and  implored  mercy.  The  females  were  soonest  undeceived, 
especially  the  daughter;  for  the  damsel  was  struck  with  the 
noble  countenance  and  gentle  demeanor  of  Pelayo,  and  said  to 
herself:  "■  Surely  nothing  evil  can  dwell  in  so  goodly  and  gra- 
cious a  form." 

Pelayo  now  sounded  his  horn,  which  echoed  from  rock  to 
rock,  and  was  answered  by  shouts  and  horns  from  various 
parts  of  the  mountains.  The  merchant's  heart  misgave  him  at 
these  signals,  and  especially  when  he  beheld  more  than  forty 
men  gathering  from  glen  and  thicket.  They  were  clad  in  hunt- 
ers' dresses,  and  armed  with  boar-spears,  darts,  and  hunting- 
swords,  and  many  of  them  led  hounds  in  long  leashes.  AH 
this  was  a  new  and  wild  scene  to  the  astonished  merchant ;  nor 
were  his  fears  abated,  when  he  saw  his  servant  approaching  with 
the  hackney,  laden  with  money-bags;  "for  of  a  certainty," 
said  he  to  himself,  "  this  will  be  too  tempting  a  spoil  for  these 
wild  hunters  of  the  mountains." 

Pelayo,  however,  took  no  more  notice  of  the  gold  than  if  it 
had  been  so  much  dross ;  at  which  the  honest  burgher  mar- 
velled exceedingly.  He  ordered  thfit  the  wounds  of  the  mer- 
chant should  be  dressed,  and  his  own  examined.  On  taking 
off  his  cuirass,  his  wound  was  found  to  be  but  slight ;  but  his 
men  were  so  exasperated  at  seeing  his  blood,  that  they  would 
have  put  the  captive  robbers  to  instant  death,  had  he  not  for- 
bidden tliem  to  do  them  any  harm. 

The  huntsmen  now  made  a  great  fire  at  the  foot  of  a  tree, 
and  l)ringit!^  a  boar,  which  they  had  killed,  cut  off  [wrtions 
and  roasted  them,  or  broiled  them  on  the  coals.  Then  draw- 
ing forth  loaves  of  bread  from  their  wallets,  they  devoured 
their  food  half  raw,  with  the  hungry  relish  of  huntsmen  and 
mountaineers.  The  merchant,  his  wife,  and  daughter,  looked 
at  all  this,  and  wondered,  for  they  had  never  beheld  so  savage 
a  repast. 

I'elayo  then  inquired  of  them  if  they  did  not  desire  to  eat; 
they  were  too  much  in  awe  of  him  to  decline,  though  they  felt 
a  loathing  at  the  thought  of  partaking  of  this  hunter's  fare; 


:/i 


120 


WOLFEBT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


but  he  ordered  a  linen  cloth  tu  be  spread  under  the  shade  of  a 
great  oak,  on  the  grassy  margin  of  a  clear  running  stream ; 
and  to  their  listonishment,  they  were  served,  not  with  the  flesh 
of  the  boar,  but  with  dainty  cheer,  such  as  the  merchant  hxJ 
scarcely  hoped  to  find  out  of  the  walls  of  his  native  city  of 
Bordeaux. 

The  good  burgher  was  of  a  community  renowned  for  gastro  • 
Domic  prowess :  his  fears  having  subsided,  his  appetite  was  now 
awakened,  and  he  addressed  himself  manfully  to  the  viand& 
that  were  set  before  him.  His  daughter,  however,  could  not 
eat :  lier  eyes  were  ever  and  i-non  stealing  to  gaze  on  Pelayo, 
whom  she  regarded  with  gratitude  for  his  protection,  and  admi- 
ration for  his  valor ;  and  now  that  he  had  laid  aside  his  helmet, 
and  she  beheld  his  lofty  countenance,  glowing  with  manly  beauty, 
she  thought  him  something  more  than  mortal.  The  heart  of  the 
gentle  donzella,  says  the  ancient  chronicler,  was  kind  and  yield- 
ing ;  and  had  Pelayo  thouglit  fit  to  ask  the  greatest  boon  that 
love  and  beauty  could  bestow  —  doubtless  meaning  her  fair 
hand  —  she  could  not,  have  had  the  cruelty  to  say  him  nay. 
Pelayo,  however,  had  no  s^uch  thoughts :  the  love  of  woman  had 
never  yet  entered  his  heart ;  and  though  he  regarded  the  damsel 
as  the  fairest  maiden  he  had  ever  beheld,  her  beauty  caused  no 
perturbation  in  his  breast. 

When  the  repast  was  over,  Pelayo  offered  to  conduct  the 
merchant  and  his  family  through  the  defiles  of  the  mountains, 
lest  they  should  be  molested  by  any  of  the  scattered  band  of 
robbers.  The  Ixxlies  of  the  slain  marauders  were  buried,  and 
the  corpse  of  the  servant  was  laid  upon  one  of  the  horses  cap- 
tured in  the  battle.  Having  formed  their  cavalcade,  they  pur- 
sued their  way  slowly  up  one  of  the  steep  and  winding  passes 
of  the  Pyrenees. 

Toward  sunset,  they  arrived  at  the  dwelling  of  a  holy  hermit. 
It  was  hewn  out  of  the  living  rock  ;  there  was  a  cross  over  the 
door,  and  before  it  was  'a  great  spreading  oak,  with  a  pweet 
spring  of  water  at  its  fojt.  The  body  of  the  faithful  servant 
who  had  fallen  in  the  defence  of  his  lord,  was  buried  close  by 
the  wall  of  this  sacred  retreat,  and  the  hermit  promised  to  per- 
form masses  for  the  repose  of  his  soul.  Then  Pelayo  obtained 
from  the  holy  father  consent  that  the  merchant's  wife  and 
daughter  sliould  pass  the  night  within  Ills  cell ;  and  the  hermit 
msule  beds  of  inoss  for  them,  and  gave  them  his  benediction; 
but  Uie  damsel  found  little  rest,  so  nmch  were  her  thoughts 
oeeui)ied  by  the  youthful  champion  who  had  rnaeued  her  from 
death  or  dishonor. 


vs. 

shade  of  a 
ig  stream ; 
h  the  flesh 
rehant  hcvl 
ive  city  of 

for  gastro  ■ 
•e  was  now 
the  viands 
could  not 
on  Pelayo, 
and  ad  mi- 
nis helmet, 
nly  beauty, 
leart  of  the 
and  yield- 
boon  that 
J  her   fair 
him  nay. 
voman  had 
the  damsel 
caused  no 

|)nduct  the 
mountains, 
id  band  of 
)uried,  and 
lorses  cap- 
,  they  pur- 
ling passes 

)ly  hermit. 
38  over  the 
h  a  eweet 
ul  servant 
I  close  by 
jed  to  per- 
o  obtained 
wife  and 
;he  hermit 
nediction  ; 
r  thoughts 
!  her  from 


PELATO  AWD  THE  MERCHANrs  DAUGHTEB.     121 

Pelr.yo,  however,  was  visited  by  no  such  wandering  of  the 
mind ;  but,  wrapping  himself  in  his  mantle,  slept  soundly  by 
the  fountain  under  the  tree.  At  midright,  when  every  thing 
was  buried  in  deep  repose,  he  was  awakened  from  his  sleep  and 
beheld  the  hermit  before  him.  with  the  beams  of  the  moon  shin- 
ing upon  his  silver  hair  and  beard. 

"This  is  no  time,"  said  the  latter,  "to  be  sleeping;  arise 
and  listen  to  my  words,  and  hear  of  the  great  work  for  which 
thou  art  chosen  ! ' ' 

Then  Pelayo  arose  and  seated  himself  on  a  rock,  and  the 
hermit  continued  his  discourse. 

"  Behold,"  said  he,  "  the  ruin  of  Spain  is  at  hand  !  It  will 
be  delivered  into  the  hands  of  strangers,  and  will  become  a  prey 
to  the  spoiler.  Its  children  will  be  slain  or  carried  into  cap- 
tivity ;  or  such  as  may  escape  these  evils,  will  harbor  with  the 
beasts  of  the  forest  or  the  eagles  of  the  mountain.  The  thorn 
and  brambU;  will  spring  up  where  now  are  seen  the  corn-field, 
the  vine,  and  the  olive  ;  and  hungry  wolves  will  roam  in  place 
of  peaceful  flocks  and  herds.  But  thou,  my  son !  '  :y  not 
thou  ♦'^  see  these  things,  for  thou  canst  not  previ  ni  them. 
Depart  on  a  pilgrimage  to  the  sepulchre  of  our  blessed  Lord  in 
Palestine  ;  purify  thyself  by  prayer  ;  enroll  thyself  in  the  order 
of  chivalry,  and  prepare  for  the  great  work  of  the  redemption 
of  thy  country  ;  for  to  thee  it  will  be  given  to  raise  it  from  the 
depth  of  its  alfliction." 

Pelayo  would  have  inquired  farther  into  the  evils  thus  fore- 
told, but  the  hermit  rebuked  his  curiosity. 

"  Seek  not  to  know  more,"  said  he,  "  than  heaven  is  pleased 
to  reveal.  Clouds  and  darkness  cover  its  designs,  and  prophecy 
is  never  permitted  to  lift  up  but  in  part  the  veil  that  rests  upon 
the  future." 

The  hermit  ceased  to  speak,  and  Pelayo  laid  himself  down 
again  to  take  repose,  but  sleep  was  a  stranger  to  his  eyes. 

When  the  first  rays  of  the  rising  sun  shone  upon  the  tops 
of  the  mountains,  the  travellers  assembled  round  the  fountain 
beneath  the  tree  and  made  their  morning's  repast.  Then,  having 
received  the  benediction  of  the  hermit,  they  departed  in  the 
freshness  of  the  day,  and  descended  along  the  hollow  defiles 
leading  into  the  interior  of  Spain.  The  good  merchant  was 
refreshed  by  sleep  and  by  his  morning's  meal ;  and  when  he 
beheld  his  wife  and  daughter  thus  secure  by  his  side,  and  the 
hackney  laden  with  his  treasure  close  behind  him,  his  heart  was 
light  in  his  bosom,  and  he  carolled  a  chanson  as  he  went,  and 
the  woodlands  echoed  to  his  song.     But  Pelayo  rode  in  siieacCi 


^  • 


I 
t 
'i 


■i  >l 


i  ■•'. 


If 

■J 


n  I 


h' 


l^ 


b 


61 


122 


WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


\^ 


If ! 

:■      . 

ji 

.    f 

1 

l| 

1     i 

M       '  i 

f     1 

^fl 

1  ' 

■n  ' 

R 

, 

In 

a 

t 

^|- 

; 

m  y 

HB; 

.  • 

H>H| 

11  ''  ^ 

■kin ' ) 

^ 

Hn  -, 

■ 

H  :  1 

;     V 

Hiitt 

i  [ 

for  he  revolved  in  his  mind  the  portentous  words  of  the  hermit ; 
and  the  daughter  of  the  merchant  ever  and  anon  stole  looks  at 
him  full  of  tenderness  and  admiration,  and  deep  sighs  betrayed 
the  agitation  of  her  bosom. 

At  length  they  came  to  the  foot  of  the  mountains,  where  the 
forests  and  the  rocks  terminated,  and  an  open  and  secure  coun- 
try lay  before  the  travellers.  Here  they  halted,  for  their  roads 
were  widely  different.  When  they  came  to  part,  the  merchant 
and  his  wife  were  loud  in  thanks  and  benedictions,  and  the 
good  burgher  would  fain  have  given  Pelayo  the  largest  of  his 
sacks  of  gold  :  but  the  young  man  put  it  aside  with  a  sniilo. 
"  Silver  and  gold,"  said  he,  "  need  I  not,  but  if  I  have  deserved 
aught  at  thy  hands,  give  me  thy  prayers,  for  the  prayers  of  a 
good  man  are  above  all  price." 

In  the  mean  time  the  daughter  had  spoken  never  a  word.  At 
length  she  raised  hei  eyes,  which  were  tilled  with  tears,  and 
looked  timidly  at  Pelayo,  and  her  bosom  tlmjljbed  ;  and  after 
a  violent  struggle  between  strong  affection  and  virgin  modesty, 
her  heart  relieved  itself  by  words. 

"  Senor,"  said  she,  "  I  know  that  T  am  unworthy  of  the 
notice  of  so  noble  a  cavalier ;  but  suffer  me  to  place  this  riu;^ 
upon  a  finger  of  that  hand  which  has  so  bravely  rescued  us  from 
death  ;  and  when  you  regard  it,  you  may  consider  it  as  a  me- 
morial of  your  own  valor,  and  not  of  one  who  is  too  humble  to 
be  remembered  by  you." 

With  these  words,  she  drew  a  ring  from  her  finger  and  put 
it  upon  the  finger  of  Velayo ;  and  having  done  this,  she  blushed 
and  trembled  at  her  own  boldness,  anil  stood  as  one  abashed, 
with  her  eyes  cast  down  upon  the  earth. 

Pelayo  was  moved  at  the  words  of  the  simple  maiden,  and  at 
the  touch  of  her  fair  hand,  and  "t  her  beauty,  as  she  stood  thus 
trembling  and  in  tears  before  him  ;  but  as  yet  he  knew  nothing 
of  woman,  and  his  heart  was  free  from  the  snares  of  love. 
"  Amiga,"  (friend,)  said  he,  "  I  accept  thy  present,  and  will 
wear  it  in  remembrance  of  thy  goodness  ;  "  so  saying,  he  kissed 
her  on  the  cheek. 

The  damsel  was  cheered  by  these  words,  and  hoped  that  she 
had  awakened  some  tenderness  in  his  bosom  ;  but  it  was  no 
such  thing,  says  the  grave  old  chronicler,  for  his  iieart  was 
devoted  to  iiigher  and  more  sacred  matters  ;  yet  certain  it  is, 
that  he  always  guarded  well  that  ring. 

When  they  parted,  Pelayo  remained  with  his  huntsmen  on  a 
cliff,  watching  that  no  evil  befell  them,  until  they  were  far  beyond 
the  skirts  of  the  mountain  ;  uud  the  damsel  often  turned  to  look 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA. 


123 


at  him,  until  she  could  no  longer  discern  him,  for  the  distance 
and  the  tears  that  dimmed  her  eyes. 

And  for  that  he  had  accepted  her  ring,  says  the  ancient 
chronicler,  she  considered  herself  wedded  to  him  in  her  heart, 
and  would  never  marry  ;  nor  could  she  be  brought  to  look  with 
eyes  of  affection  upon  any  other  man ;  but  for  the  true  lo\e 
which  she  bore  Telayo,  she  lived  and  died  a  virgin.  And  she 
composed  a  book  which  treated  of  love  ana  chivalry,  and  the 
temptations  of  this  mortal  life;  and  one  part  discoursed  of 
celestial  matte,  5,  and  it  was  called  "The  Contemplations  <^ 
Love  ;  "  because  at  the  time  she  wrote  it,  she  thought  of  Pelayo, 
and  of  his  having  accepted  her  jewel  and  called  her  bv  the 
gentle  appellation  of  "  Amiga."  And  often  thinking  of  him  in 
tender  sadness,  and  of  her  never  having  beheld  him  more,  she 
would  take  the  book  and  would  read  it  as  if  in  his  stead ;  and 
while  she  repeated  the  words  of  love  which  it  contained,  she 
would  endeavor  to  fancy  them  uttered  by  Pelayo,  aud  thi  t  he 
stood  before  her. 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA. 

To  THE  Editor  of  the  Knickerbocker. 

Sir:  In  the  course  of  a  tour  which  I  made  in  Sicily,  in  the 
days  of  my  juvenility,  I  passed  some  little  time  at  the  ancient 
city  of  Catania,  at  the  foot  of  Mount  iEtna.     Here  I  became 

awjuainted  with  the  Chevalier  L ,  an  old  Knight  of  Malta. 

It  was  not  many  years  after  the  time  that  Napoleon  had  dis- 
IcKlged  the  knights  from  their  island,  and  he  still  wore  the 
insignia  of  his  order.  He  was  not,  however,  one  of  those  relics 
of  that  once  chivalrous  bo<ly,  who  had  been  described  as  "  a 
few  worn-out  old  men,  creeping  about  certain  parts  of  Europe, 
with  the  Maltese  cross  on  their  breasts;"  on  the  contrary, 
though  advancoil  in  life,  his  form  was  still  light  and  vigorous ; 
he  had  a  pale,  thin,  intellectual  visage,  with  a  high  forehead, 
and  a  bright,  visionary  eye.  He  seemed  to  take  a  fancy  to  me, 
as  I  certainly  did  to  him,  and  we  soon  became  intimate.  I 
visited  him  occasionally,  at  his  apartments,  in  the  wing  of  an 
old  palace,  looking  toward  Mount  iEtna.  He  was  an  antiquary, 
a  virtuoso,  and  a  connoisseur.  His  rooms  were  decorated  with 
mutilated  statues,  dug  up  from  Grecian  and  Roman  ruins ;  old 
vases,  lachrymals,  and  sepulchral  lamps.     He  bad  astronomical 


f  1 


1. 


\- 


r 


0  : 


124 


WOLFERrs  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


and  chemical  instruments,  and  black-letter  bookr.,  in  various 
languages.  I  found  that  he  had  dipped  a  little  in  ehiraerical 
studies,  and  had  a  hankering  after  astrology  and  alchemy.  He 
affected  to  believe  in  dreams  and  visions,  and  delighted  in  the 
fanciful  Rosicrucian  doctrines.  I  cannot  persuade  myself,  how- 
ever, that  he  really  believed  in  all  these  :  I  rather  think  he  loved 
to  let  his  imagination  carry  him  away  into  the  boundless  fairy 
land  which  they  unfolded. 

In  company  with  the  chevalier,  I  took  several  excursions  on 
horseback  about  the  environs  of  Catania,  and  the  picturesque 
skirts  of  Mount  ^tna.  One  of  these  led  through  a  village, 
which  had  sprung  up  on  the  very  tract  of  an  ancient  eruption, 
the  houses  being  built  of  lava.  At  one  time  we  passed,  for 
some  distance,  along  a  narrow  lane,  between  two  high  dead 
convent  walls.  It  was  a  cut-throat-looking  place,  in  a  country 
where  assassinations  are  frequent ;  and  just  about  midway 
through  it,  we  observed  blood  upon  the  pavement  and  the  walls, 
as  if  a  murder  had  actually  been  committed  there. 

The  chevalier  spurred  on  his  horse,  until  he  had  extricated 
himself  completely  from  this  suspicious  neighborhood.  lie 
then  observed,  that  it  reminded  him  of  a  similar  blind  alley  iu 
Malta,  infamous  on  account  of  the  many  assassinations  that 
had  taken  place  there ;  concerning  one  of  which,  he  related  a 
long  and  tragical  story,  that  lasted  until  we  reached  Catania. 
It  involved  various  circumstances  of  a  wild  and  supernatural 
character,  but  which  he  assured  me  were  handed  down  in  tradi- 
tion, and  generally  credited  by  the  old  inhabitants  of  Malta. 

As  I  like  to  pick  up  strange  stories,  and  as  I  was  particularly 
struck  with  several  parts  of  this,  I  made  a  minute  of  it,  on  my 
return  to  my  lodgings.  The  memorandum  was  lost,  with  several 
others  of  my  travelling  papers,  and  the  story  had  faded  from 
my  mind,  when  recently,  in  perusing  a  French  memoir,  I  came 
suddenly  upon  it,  dressed  up,  it  is  true,  in  a  very  different 
manner,  but  agreeing  in  the  leading  facts,  and  given  upon  the 
word  of  that  famous  adventurer,  the  Count  Cagliostro. 

I  have  amused  myself,  during  a  snowy  day  in  the  country, 
by  rendering  it  roughly  into  English,  for  the  entertainment  of 
a  youthful  circle  round  the  Christmas  fire.  It  was  well  received 
by  my  auditors,  who,  however,  are  rather  easily  pleased.  Oue 
proof  of  its  merits  is  that  it  sent  some  of  the  youngest  of  them 
quaking  to  their  beds,  and  gave  them  very  fearful  dreams. 
Hoping  that  it  may  have  the  same  effect  upon  your  ghost-hunt- 
ing readers,  I  offer  it,  Mr.  Editor,  for  insertion  in  your  Maga- 
zine.    I  would  observe,  that  wherever  I  have  modified  the  French 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA. 


125 


version  of  the  story,  it  has  been  in  conformity  to  some  recollec- 
tion of  the  narrative  of  my  friend,  the  Knight  of  Malta. 

Yourobt.  servt., 

GEOFFREY  CRAYON. 


THE  GRAND  PRIOR  OF  MINORCA. 

A   VERtTABLE   GHOST   STORT. 

"  Keep  my  wiU,  heaven  I    They  gay  gplrlts  appear 
To  melancholy  minds,  and  the  graves  open !  "  —  Plbtchir. 

About  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  while  the  Knights  of 
Saint  John  of  Jerusalem  still  maintained  something  of  their 
ancient  state  and  sway  in  the  Island  of  Malta,  a  tragical  event 
took  place  there,  which  is  the  groundwork  of  the  following 
narrative. 

It  may  be  as  well  to  premise,  that  at  the  time  we  are  treating 
of,  the  order  of  Saint  John  of  Jerusalem,  grown  excessively 
wealthy,  had  degenerated  from  its  originally  devout  and  war- 
like character.  Instead  of  being  a  hardy  body  of  "  monk- 
knights,"  sworn  soldiers  of  the  cross,  fighting  the  Paynim  in 
the  Holy  Land,  or  scouring  the  Mediterranean,  and  ecourging 
the  Barbary  coasts  with  their  galleys,  or  feeding  the  poor,  and 
attending  upon  the  sick  at  their  hospitals,  they  led  a  Ufe  of 
luxury  and  libertinism,  and  were  to  be  found  in  the  most  vo- 
luptuous courts  of  Europe.  The  order,  in  fact,  had  become 
a  mode  of  providing  for  the  needy  branches  of  the  Catholic 
aristocracy  of  Europe.  "A  commandery,"  we  are  told,  was  a 
splendid  provision  for  a  younger  brother;  and  men  of  rank, 
however  dissolute,  provided  they  belonged  to  the  highest  aris- 
tocracy, became  Knights  of  Malta,  just  as  they  did  bishops,  or 
colonels  of  regiments,  or  court  chamberlains.  After  a  brief 
residence  at  Malta,  the  knights  passed  the  rest  of  their  time  in 
their  own  countries,  or  only  made  a  visit  now  and  then  to  the 
island.  While  there,  having  but  little  military  duty  to  perform, 
they  beguiled  their  idleness  by  paying  attentions  to  the  fair. 

There  was  one  circle  of  society,  however,  into  which  they 
could  not  obtain  currency.  This  was  composed  of  a  few  fami- 
lies of  the  old  Maltese  nobility,  natives  of  the  island.  These 
families,  not  being  permitted  to  enroll  any  of  their  members 
in  the  order,  affected  to  hold  no  intercourse  with  its  cheva- 
liers ;  admitting   none   into  their  exclusive   coteries  but  the 


I- 


111 


I  ' 


126 


WOLFEBrs  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


Grand  Master,   whom  they  acknowledged  as  their  sovereign, 
and  the  members  of  the  chapter  which  composed  his  council. 

To  indemnify  themselves  for  this  exclusion,  the  clievaliera 
carried  their  gallantries  into  the  next  class  of  society,  com- 
posed of  those  who  held  civil,  administrative,  and  judicial 
situations.  The  ladies  of  this  class  were  called  hononUe,  or 
honorables,  to  distinguish  them  from  the  inferior  orders  ;  and 
among  them  were  many  of  superior  grace,  beauty,  and  fas- 
cination. 

Even  in  this  more  hospitable  class,  the  chevaliers  were  not 
all  equally  favored.  Those  of  Germany  had  the  decided  i)ref- 
erence,  owing  to  their  fair  and  fresh  complexions,  and  the 
kindliness  of  tlieir  manners :  next  to  these  came  the  Spanisli 
cavaliers,  on  account  of  their  profound  and  courteous  devotion, 
and  most  discreet  secrecy.  Singular  as  it  may  seem,  the  chev- 
aliers of  France  fared  the  worst.  T.'-e  Maltese  ladies  dreaded 
their  volatility,  and  their  proneness  to  boast  of  their  amours, 
and  shunned  all  entanglement  with  them.  They  were  forced, 
therefore,  to  content  themselves  with  conquests  among  females 
of  the  lower  orders.  They  revenged  themselves,  after  the 
gay  French  manner,  by  making  the  "  hoD'nate  "  the  objects 
of  all  kinds  of  jests  and  mystifications ;  by  prying  into  their 
tender  affairs  with  the  more  favored  chevaliers,  and 
them  the  theme  of  song  and  epigram. 

About  this  time,  a  French  vessel  arrived  at  Malta,  bringing 
out  a  distinguished  personage  of  the  order  of  Saint  John  of 
Jerusalem,  the  Commander  de  Foulquerre,  who  came  to  solicit 
the  post  of  commander-in-chief  of  the  galleys.  He  was  de- 
scended from  an  old  and  warrior  line  of  French  nobility,  his 
ancestors  having  long  been  seneschals  of  Poitou,  and  claiming 
descent  from  the  first  counts  of  Angouleme. 

The  arrival  of  the  commander  caused  a  little  uneasiness, 
among  the  peaceably  inclined,  for  he  l)ore  the  character,  in  the 


making 


island,   of   being   fiery,  arrogant,  and   quarrelsome. 


He 
visit 


had 
had 


already  been   three   times   at  Malta,    and   on   each 
signalized  himself  by  some  rash  and  deadly  affray. 

As  he  was  now  thirty-five  years  of  age,  however,  it  was 
hoped  that  time  might  have  taken  off  the  fiery  edge  of  his 
spirit,  and  that  he  might  prove  more  quiet  and  sedate  tii:.'u 
formerly.  The  commander  set  up  an  establishment  befitting 
his  rank  and  pretensions  ;  for  he  arrogated  to  himself  an  im- 
portance greater  even  than  that  of  the  Grand  Master.  His 
house  immediately  became  the  rallying  place  of  all  the  young 
French  chevaliers.     They  informed  him  of  all  the  slights  the^ 


'ES. 

'  sovereign, 
council. 
2  clievaliera 
iciety,  com- 
,nd  judicial 
honorate,  or 
orders ;  and 
y,  and  faa- 

rs  were  not 
'cidod  [)ref- 
s,  and  the 
Llie  Spanish 
IS  devotion, 
n,  the  chev- 
ies dreaded 
eir  amours, 
rere  forced, 
)ng  females 
,  after  the 
the  objects 
f  into  their 
md  making 

a,  bringing 
nt  John  of 
e  to  solicit 
le  was  de- 
lobility,  his 
id  claiming 

uneasiness, 
cter,  in  the 
He  had 
visit  had 

er,  it  was 
dge  of  his 
t'diile  ihtrj 
ut  befitting 
self  an  im- 
ister.  His 
the  young 
lights  the^ 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA. 


127 


had  exper;?nced  or  imagined,  and  indulged  their  petulant  and 
BatincRl  vcn  at  the  expense  of  the  honorate  and  their  admirers 
The  chevaliers  of  other  nations  soon  found  the  topics  and  tone 
of  conversation  at  the  commander's  irksome  and  offensive,  and 
gradually  ceased  to  visit  there.  The  commander  remained  the 
head  of  a  national  clique,  who  looked  up  to  him  as  their  model. 
If  he  was  not  as  boisterous  and  quarrelsome  as  formerly,  he 
had  become  haughty  and  overbearing.  He  was  fond  of  talking 
over  his  past  affairs  of  punctilio  and  bloody  duel.  When  walk" 
ing  the  streets,  he  was  generally  attended  by  a  ruffling  train  of 
young  French  cavaliers,  who  caught  his  own  air  of  assumption 
and  bravado.  These  he  would  conduct  to  the  scenes  of  his 
deadly  encounters,  point  out  the  very  spot  where  each  fatal 
longe  had  been  given,  and  dwell  vaingloriously  on  every  par- 
ticular. 

Under  his  tuition,  the  young  French  chevaliers  began  to  add 
bluster  and  arrogance  to  their  former  petulance  and  levity; 
they  fired  up  on  the  most  trivial  occasions,  particularly  with 
those  who  had  been  most  successful  with  the  fair ;  and  would 
put  on  the  most  intolerable  drawcansir  airs.  The  other  cheva- 
liers conducted  themselves  with  all  possible  forbearance  and 
reserve  ;  but  they  saw  it  would  be  impossible  to  keep  on  long, 
in  this  manner,  without  coming  to  an  open  rupture. 

Among  the  Spanish  cavaliers  was  one  named  Don  Luis  de 
Lima  Vasconcellos.  He  was  distantly  related  to  the  Grand 
Master ;  and  had  been  enrolled  at  an  early  age  among  his 
pages,  but  had  been  rapidly  promoted  by  him,  until,  at  the  age 
of  twenty-six,  he  had  been  given  the  richest  Spanish  command- 
ery  in  the  order.  He  had,  moreover,  been  fortunate  with  the 
fair,  with  one  of  whom,  the  most  beautiful  honorata  of  Malta, 
he  had  long  maintained  the  most  tender  correspondence. 

The  character,  rank,  and  connections  of  Don  Luis  put  him 
on  a  par  with  the  imperious  Commander  dc  Foulquerre,  and 
pointed  him  out  as  a  leader  and  champion  to  his  countrymen. 
The  Spanish  chevaliers  repaired  to  him,  therefore,  in  a  body ; 
represented  all  the  grievances  they  had  sustained,  and  the  evils 
they  apprehended,  and  urged  him  to  use  his  influence  with  the 
commander  and  his  adherents  to  put  a  stop  to  the  growing 
abuses. 

Don  Luis  was  gratified  by  this  mark  of  confidence  and  esteem 
on  the  part  of  his  countrymen,  and  promised  to  have  an  inter- 
view with  the  Commander  de  Foulquerre  on  the  subject.  He 
resolved  to  conduct  himself  with  the  utmost  caution  and  deli- 
oacy  on  the  occasion ;  to  repreaeat  to  the  commander  the  evil 


■'1 

• 

"i 

1 

i 

p 


\ 


t  ■ 

■1 


128 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


consequences  which  miglit  result  from  the  inconsiderate  con- 
duct  of  the  young  French  chevaliers,  and  to  entreat  him  to 
exert  the  great  influence  he  so  deservedly  possessed  over  them, 
to  restrain  their  excesses.  Don  Luis  was  aware,  however,  of 
the  peril  that  attended  any  interview  of  the  kind  with  this  im- 
perious and  fractious  man,  and  apprehended,  however  it  might 
commence,  t^at  it  would  terminate  in  a  duel.  Still,  it  was  an 
affair  of  ho  lor,  in  which  Castilian  dignity  was  concerned, 
beside,  he  had  a  lurking  disgust  at  the  overbearing  manners  of 
De  Foulquerre,  and  perhaps  had  been  somewhat  offended  by 
certain  intrusive  attentions  which  he  had  presumed  to  pay  to 
the  beautiful  honorata. 

It  was  now  Holy  Week  ;  a  time  too  sacred  for  worldly  feuds 
and  passions,  especially  in  a  community  under  the  dominion  of 
a  religious  order ;  it  was  agreed,  therefor^',  that  the  dangerous 
interview  in  question  should  not  take  place  until  after  the  Easter 
holidays.  It  is  probable,  from  subsequent  circumstances,  that 
the  Commander  de  Foulquerre  had  some  information  of  this 
-^Trangement  among  the  Spanish  chevaliers,  and  was  determined 
to  be  beforehand,  and  to  mortify  the  pride  of  their  champion, 
who  was  thus  preparing  to  read  him  a  lecture.  He  chose  Good 
Friday  for  his  purpose.  On  this  sacred  day,  it  is  customary 
in  Catholic  countries  to  make  a  tour  of  all  the  churches,  offer- 
ing up  prayers  in  each.  In  every  Catholic  church,  as  is  well 
known,  there  is  a  vessel  of  holy  water  near  the  door.  In  this, 
everyone,  on  entering,  dips  his  fingers,  and  makes  therewith  the 
sign  of  the  cross  on  his  forehead  and  breast.  An  office  of  gal- 
lantry, among  the  young  Spaniards,  is  to  stand  near  the  door, 
dip  their  hands  in  the  holy  vessel,  and  extend  them  courteously 
and  respectfully  to  any  lady  of  their  acquaintance  who  may  enter ; 
who  thus  receives  the  sacred  water  at  second  hand,  on  the  tips 
of  her  fingers,  and  proceeds  to  cross  herself,  with  all  due  deco- 
rum. The  Spaniards,  who  are  the  most  jealous  of  lovers,  are 
impatient  when  this  piece  of  devotional  gallantry  is  proffered 
to  the  object  of  their  affections  by  any  other  hand :  on  Good 
Friday,  therefore,  when  a  lady  makes  a  tour  of  the  churches, 
it  is  the  usage  among  them  for  the  inamorato  to  follow  her  from 
church  to  church,  so  as  to  present  her  the  holy  water  at  the  door 
of  each  ;  thus  testifying  his  own  devotion,  and  at  the  same  time 
preventing  the  officious  services  of  a  rival. 

On  the  day  in  question,  Don  Luis  followed  the  beautiful 
honorata,  to  whom,  as  has  already  been  observed,  he  had  long 
been  devoted.  At  the  very  first  church  she  visited,  the  Com- 
mander de  Foulquerre  was  stationed  at  the  portal,  with  several 


ES. 

lerate  con- 
•eat  him  to 
over  them, 
lowever,  of 
th  this  im- 
7er  it  might 
1,  it  was  aD 
concerned, 
manners  of 
)flfended  by 
I  to  pay  to 

jrldly  feuds 
lominion  of 
!  dangerous 
r  the  Easter 
tances,  that 
ion  of  this 
determined 
r  champion, 
chose  Good 
I  customary 
rches,  offer- 
as  is  well 
In  this, 
lerewith  the 
tFice  of  gal- 
ir  the  door, 
courteously 
I  may  enter ; 
on  the  tips 
due  deco- 
lovers,  are 
is  proffered 
on  Good 
churches, 
)w  her  from 
at  the  door 
e  same  time 

e  beautiful 
le  had  long 
3,  the  Com- 
niiii  seveial 


THE  KNianr  of  malt  a. 


129 


of  the  young  French  cheraliers  about  him.     Before  Don  Luis 
could  offer  her  the  holy  water,  he  was  anticipaUul  by  the  com- 
mander, who  thrust  himself  between  them,  and,  while  he  per- 
formed the  gallant  omce  to  the  lady,  rudely  turned  his  back 
upon  her  admirer,  and  trod  upon  his  feet.     The  insult  was 
enjoyed  by  the  young  Frenchmen  who  were  present :  it  was  too 
deep  and  grave  to  be  forgiven  by  Spanish  pride ;  and  at  once 
put  an  end  to  all  Don  Luis'  plans  of  caution  and  forbearance. 
He  repressed  his  passion  for  the  moment,  liowevcr,  and  waited 
until  all  the  parties  left  the  church ;  tiien,  accosting  the  com- 
mander  with  an  air  of  coolness  and  unconcern,  he  inquired  after 
his  health,  and  asked  U)  what  church  he  proposed  making  his 
second  visit.     "  To  the  Magisterial  Church  of  Saint  John." 
Don  Luis  offered  to  conduct  him  thither,  by  the  shortest  route. 
His  offer  was  accepted,  apparenUy  without  suspicion,  and  they 
proceeded  together.     After  wah^ing  some  distance,  they  entered 
a  long,  narrow  lane,  without  door  or  window  opening  upon  it, 
called  the  "  Strada  Stretta,"  or  narrow  street.     It  was  a  street 
in  which  duels  were  tacitly  permitted,  or  connived  at,  in  Malta, 
and  were  suffered  to  pass  as  accidental  encounters.    Everywhere 
else  they  were  prohibited.     This  restriction  had  been  instituted 
to  diminish  the  number  of  duels,  formerly  so  frequent  in  Malta. 
As  a  farther  precaution  to  render  these  encounters  less  fatal, 
it  was  an  offence,  punishable  with  death,  for  any  one  to  enter 
this  street  armed  with  either  poniard  or  pistol.     It  was  a  lonely, 
dismal  street,  just  wide  enough  for  two  men  to  stand  upon  their 
guard,  and  cross  their  swords ;  few  persons  ever  traversed  it, 
unless  with   some   sinister  design ;   and  on   any  preconcerted 
duello,  the  seconds  posted  themselves  at  each  end,  to  stop  all 
passengers,  and  prevent  interruption. 

In  the  present  instance,  the  parties  had  scarce  entered  the 
street,  when  Don  Luis  drew  his  sword,  and  called  upon  the  com- 
mander to  defend  himself. 

De  Foulquerre  was  evidently  taken  by  surprise:  he  drew 
back,  and  attemped  to  expostulate ;  but  Don  Luis  persisted  in 
defying  him  to  the  combat. 

After  a  second  or  two,  he  likewise  drew  his  sword,  but  im- 
mediately lowered  the  point. 

"Good  Friday!"  ejaculated  he,  shaking  his  head;  "one 
word  with  you  ;  it  is  full  six  years  since  I  have  been  in  a  con- 
fessional :  I  am  shocked  at  the  state  of  my  conscience ;  but 
within  three  days—  that  is  to  say,  on  Monday  next " 

Don  Luis  would  listen  to  nothing.  Though  naturally  of  a 
peaceable  disposition,  he  had  been  stung  to  fury,  and  people 


) 


»'-j 


130 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


of  that  character,  when  oncn  incensed,  are  deaf  to  reason.  He 
compelled  the  commander  to  put  himself  on  his  f^iiurd.  The 
latter,  though  a  man  accustomed  to  l)rawl  in  Itattle,  was  singu- 
larly dismayed.  Terror  was  visible  in  all  his  features.  lie 
placed  himself  with  his  back  to  the  wall,  and  the  weaijons  were 
crossed.  The  contest  was  brief  and  fatal.  At  the  very  first 
thrust,  the  sword  of  Don  Luis  passed  through  the  body  of  his 
antagonist.  The  commander  staggered  to  the  wall,  and  leaned 
against  it. 

"On  Good  Friday!"  ejaculated  he  again,  with  a  failing 
voice,  and  despairing  accents.  "Heaven  pardon  you!  "  added 
he ;  "  take  my  sword  to  Tetefoulquos,  and  have  a  hundred 
masses  performed  in  the  chapel  of  the  castle,  for  the  repose 
of  my  soul !  "     With  these  words  he  expired. 

Tiie  fury  of  Don  Luis  was  at  an  end.  lie  stood  aghast,  gaz- 
ing at  the  bleeding  tody  of  the  commander.  He  called  to  mind 
the  prayer  of  the  deceased  for  three  days'  respite,  to  niake  !iis 
peace  with  heaven ;  he  had  refused  it ;  he  had  sent  him  to  the 
grave,  with  a''  his  sins  upon  his  head !  His  conscience  smoto 
him  to  the  coi . ,  he  gathered  up  the  sword  of  the  commander, 
which  he  had  been  enjoined  to  take  to  Tetefoulcjues,  and  hur- 
ried from  the  fatal  Strada  Stretta. 

The  duel  of  course  made  a  great  noise  in  Malta,  but  had  no 
injurious  effect  upon  the  worldly  fortunes  of  Don  Luis.  He 
made  a  full  declaration  of  the  whole  matter,  before  the  proper 
authorities  ;  the  Chapter  of  the  Order  considered  it  one  of  those 
casual  encounters  of  the  Strada  Stretta,  which  were  mourned 
over,  but  tolerated  ;  the  public,  by  whom  the  late  eoniniaiidcr 
had  been  generally  detested,  declared  that  he  had  deserved  his 
fate.  It  was  but  three  days  after  the  event,  that  Don  Luis  was 
advanced  to  one  of  the  highest  dignities  of  the  Order,  being  in- 
vested by  the  Grand  Master  with  the  priorship  of  the  kingdom 
of  Minorca. 

From  that  time  forward,  however,  the  whole  character  and 
conduct  of  Don  Luis  underwent  a  change.  He  became  a  prey 
to  a  dark  melancholy,  which  nothing  could  assuage.  The  most 
austere  piety,  the  severest  penances,  had  no  effect  in  allaying 
the  horror  which  preyed  upon  his  mind.  He  was  aljscnt  for  a 
long  time  from  Malta ;  having  gone,  it  was  said,  on  remote  pil- 
grimages :  when  he  returned,  he  was  more  haggard  lluui  ever. 
Tiiere  seemed  something  mysterious  and  inexi)li<'able  in  this 
disorder  of  his  mind.  The  following  is  the  revelation  made  liy 
himself,  of  the  horrible  visions,  or  chimeras,  by  which  he  was 
haunted : 


II 


on.     He 

d.  Tho 
18  8inp;u- 
res.  He 
oiis  were 
I' cry  first 
ly  of  his 
(I  leaned 

a  failinf; 

'."added 

hundred 

le  repose 

last,  \ia7- 
il  to  mind 

nialve  his 
iui  to  the 
nee  sinoto 
inmander, 

and  hur- 

(ut  liad  no 
^uis.  lie 
lie  proper 
of  tlio.se 
mourned 
nmaudcr 
rved  his 
Luis  was 
lu'injj;  in- 
kingdom 

loter  and 

me  a  prey 

'he  most 

allaying 

sent  for  a 

mote  pil- 

lan  ever. 

f  in  this 

made  Ity 

1  he  was 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA. 


181 


"  When  1  had  made  my  declaration  hefore  the  Chapter,"  said 
he,  "and  my  iirovocations  were  publicly  known,  I  had  made 
my  peace  with  man  ;  hut  it  was  not  so  with  (iod,  nor  with  my 
confessor,  nor  with  my  own  conscience.  My  act  was  doubly 
criminal,  from  the  day  on  which  it  was  committed,  and  from 
my  refusal  to  a  delay  of  three  days,  for  the  victim  of  my  resent- 
ncnt  to  receive  the  sacraments.  His  despairing  ejaculation, 
'Uood  Friilay !  (iood  Friday!'  contimuiUy  rang  in  my  ears. 
•  Why  did  1  not  grant  the  respite ! '  cried  I  to  myself ;  '  was  it 
:i:)t  enougli  to  kill  the  body,  but  must  I  seek  to  kill  the  soul ! ' 

''On  the  niglit  of  the  following  Friday,  I  started  suddenly 
from  my  sleep.  An  unaccountable  horror  was  upon  me.  I 
looked  wildly  around.  It  seemed  as  if  1  were  not  in  my  apart- 
ment, nor  in  my  l)ed,  but  in  the  fatal  Strada  Stretta,  lying  on 
the  pavement.  I  again  saw  the  commander  leaning  against 
the  wall ;  I  again  heard  his  dying  words :  '  Take  my  sword  to 
Tetefoukpies,  and  have  a  hundred  masses  perlormed  in  the 
chapel  of  tiie  castle,  for  the  repose  of  my  soul !  * 

"On  tlie  following  night,  I  caused  one  of  my  servants  to  sleep 
in  the  same  room  with  me.  I  saw  and  heard  nothing,  either 
on  that  night,  or  'Uiy  of  the  nights  following,  until  the  next 
Friday  ;  when  I  had  again  the  same  vision,  with  this  difference, 
that  my  valet  seemed  to  be  lying  at  some  distance  from  me  on 
the  pavement  of  the  Strada  Stretta.  The  vision  continued  to 
b(!  repi'ated  on  every  Friday  night,  the  commander  always 
appi'aring  in  tlu^  same  manner,  and  uttering  the  same  words : 
'  Take  my  sword  to  Tutefoulques,  and  have  a  hundred  masses 
performed  in  the  chapel  of  the  castle  for  the  repose  of  3iy 
soul ! ' 

»'0n  questioning  my  servant  on  the  subject,  he  stated,  that 
on  these  occasions  he  dreamed  that  he  was  lying  in  a  very 
narrow  street,  but  he  neither  saw  nor  heard  any  thing  of  the 
commander. 

"I  knew  nothing  of  this  Tetefoulques,  whither  the  defunct 
was  so  urgent  1  should  carry  his  sword.  1  made  inquires, 
iherefore,  concerning  it  among  the  French  chevaliers.  They 
informed  me  that  it  was  an  old  castle,  situated  about  four 
leagues  from  I'oitiers,  in  the  midst  of  a  forest.  It  had  been 
built  ill  old  times,  several  centuries  since,  by  Foulques  Taille- 
fer,  (or  Fulke  Hackin)n,)  a  redoubtable,  hard-fighting  Count 
of  Aiigouleme,  who  gave  it  to  an  illegitimate  son,  afterward 
created  (i  rand  Seneschal  of  Poitou,  which  sou  became  the  pro- 
o-enitor  of  the  Foukpierres  of  Tetefoulques,  hereditary  Sen- 
pachala  of    Poitou.     Thev  farther  informed  lue,  that  straugtt 


t .  i 


I 

[I 


u 

ft 


132 


WOLFKRT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


t 


stories  were  told  of  this  old  castle,  in  the  surrounding  country, 
and  that  it  contained  many  curious  relics.  Among  these,  were 
the  arms  of  Foulques  Taillefer,  together  with  all  those  of  the 
warriors  he  had  slain ;  and  that  "'  was  an  immemorial  usage 
with  the  Foulquerres  to  have  the  weapons  deposited  there  which 
they  had  wielded  either  in  war  or  in  single  combat.  This,  then, 
was  the  reason  of  the  dying  injunction  of  the  commander  re- 
specting his  sword.  I  carried  this  weapon  with  me,  wherever 
I  went,  hut  still  I  neglected  to  comply  with  his  request. 

"The  visions  still  continued  to  harass  me  with  undiminished 
horror.  I  repaired  to  Home,  where  I  confessed  myself  to  the 
Grand  Cardinal  [K'nitentiary,  and  informed  him  of  the  terrors 
with  which  I  was  haunted,  lie  promised  me  absolution,  after 
I  should  have  performed  certain  acts  of  penance,  the  principal 
♦^f  which  was,  to  execute  the  dying  request  of  the  commander, 
^y  carrying  the  sword  to  Tetefoulques,  and  having  the  hundred 
xnasses  performed  in  the  chapel  of  the  castle  for  the  repose  of 
Ms  soul. 

"I  set  out  for  France  as  speedily  as  possible,  and  made  no 
ilelay  in  my  journey.  On  arriving  at  Poitiers,  I  found  that  the 
tidings  of  the  death  of  the  commander  had  reached  there,  but 
\iad  caused  no  more  aflliction  than  among  the  people  of  Malta. 
Leaving  my  c(iuipage  in  the  town,  1  put  on  the  garb  of  a  pilgrim, 
and  taking  a  guide,  set  out  on  foot  for  Tetefoulques.  Indeed 
the  roads  in  tliis  part  of  the  country  were  impracticable  for 
carriages. 

"  I  found  the  castle  of  Tetefoulques  a  grand  but  gloomy  and 
dilapidated  pile.  All  the  gates  were  closed,  and  there  feigaed 
over  the  whole  place  an  air  of  almost  savage  loneliness  and 
desertion.  1  hiui  understood  that  its  only  inhabitants  were  the 
concierge,  or  warder,  and  a  kind  of  hermit  who  had  charge  of 
the  chapel.  After  ringing  for  st)me  time  at  the  gate,  1  at  length 
succeeded  in  bringing  forth  the  warder,  who  bowed  with  rev- 
erence to  my  pilgrim"" s  garb.  1  begged  him  to  conduct  me  to 
the  chapel,  that  being  the  end  of  my  pilgrimage.  We  found 
the  hermit  there,  chanting  the  funeral  service ;  a  dismal  sound 
to  one  who  oanie  to  perform  a  penance  for  the  death  of  a  mem- 
ber of  the  family.  When  he  had  ceased  to  chant,  I  informed 
him  tiiiit  1  came  to  accomplish  an  obligation  of  conscience,  and 
that  I  wished  him  U)  perform  a  hundred  masses  for  the  repose 
of  the  soul  of  the  commander.  He  replied  that,  not  being  in 
ordei's,  he  was  not  antliorized  to  peform  mass,  but  that  he  would 
willingly  undertake  to  see  that  my  debt  of  conscience  was  dis- 
charged.    I  laid  my  offering  on  the  altar,  and  would  have  placed 


1. 

country, 
ese,  were 
se  of  the 
ial  usage 
ere  which 
his,  then, 
lander  re- 
wherever 

iminished 
.'If  to  the 
le  terrors 
ion,  after 
principal 
[ninander, 
!  hundred 
repose  of 

made  no 
I  that  the 
there,  but 
of  Malta, 
a  pilgrim, 
.  Indeed 
icable  for 

oomy  and 
e  vyigned 
incss  and 
were  the 
charge  of 
at  length 
with  rev- 
ict  me  lu 
kVe  found 
rial  sound 
f  a  mem- 
informed 
ence,  and 
he  repose 
,  being  in 
he  would 
;  was  dis- 
ive  placed 


THE  KNIOHT  OF  MALTA. 


133 


the  sword  of  the  commander  there,  likewise.  '  Hold ! '  said  the 
hermit,  with  a  melancholy  shake  of  the  head,  '  this  is  no  place 
for  so  deadly  a  weapon,  that  has  so  often  been  bathed  in  Chris- 
tian blood.  Take  it  to  the  armory ;  you  will  find  there  trophies 
enough  of  like  character.  It  is  a  place  into  which  I  never 
enter.' 

*'  The  warder  here  took  up  the  theme  abandoned  by  the  peace- 
ful man  of  God.  He  assured  me  that  I  would  see  in  the  armory 
the  swords  of  all  the  warrior  race  of  Foulquerres,  together  with 
those  of  the  enemies  over  whom  they  had  triumphed.  This, 
he  observed,  had  been  a  usage  kept  up  since  the  time  of  Mel- 
lusine,  and  of  her  husband,  Geoffrey  a  la  Grand-dent,  or  Geof- 
frey with  the  Great-tooth. 

"  1  followed  the  gossiping  warder  to  the  armory.  It  was  a 
great  dusty  hall,  hung  round  with  Gothic-looking  portraits,  of 
a  stark  line  of  warriors,  each  with  his  weapons,  and  the  weap- 
ons of  those  he  nad  slain  in  battle,  hung  beside  his  picture. 
The  most  conspicuous  portrait  was  that  of  Foulques  Taillef«r, 
(Fulke  Hackiron,)  Count  of  Angouleme,  and  founder  of  the 
castle.  He  was  represented  at  full  length,  armed  cap-^-pie, 
and  grasping  a  huge  buckler,  on  which  were  emblazoned  three 
lions  passant.  The  figure  was  so  striking,  that  it  seemed  ready 
to  start  from  the  canvas :  and  I  observed  beneath  this  picture, 
a  trophy  composed  of  many  weapons,  proofs  of  the  numerous 
triumphs  of  this  hard-fighting  old  cavalier.  Beside  the  weap- 
ons connected  with  the  portraits,  there  were  swords  of  all 
shapes,  sizes,  and  centuries,  hung  round  the  hall ;  with  piles  of 
armor,  placed  as  it  were  in  effigy. 

*'  On  each  side  of  an  immense  chimney,  were  suspended  the 
portraits  of  the  first  seneschal  of  Poitou  (the  illegitimate  son  of 
Foulques  Taillefer)  and  his  wife  Isabella  de  Lusignan ;  the  pro- 
genitors of  the  grim  race  of  Foulquerres  that  frowned  around. 
They  had  the  look  of  be  Ing  perfect  likenesses  ;  and  as  I  gazed  on 
them,  I  fancied  I  could  trace  in  their  antiquated  features  some 
family  resemblance  to  their  unfortunate  descendant,  whom  I 
had  slain !  This  was  a  dismal  neighborhood,  yet  the  armory 
was  the  only  part  of  the  castle  that  had  a  habitable  air ;  so  I 
asked  the  warder  whether  he  could  not  make  a  fire,  and  give 
me  something  for  supper  there,  and  prepare  me  a  bed  in  one 
corner. 

"  'A  fire  and  a  supper  you  shall  have,  and  that  cheerfully, 
most  worthy  pilgrim,'  said  he ;  '  but  as  to  a  bed,  I  advise  you 
to  come  and  sleep  in  my  chamber.' 

"'Why  so?'  inquired  I;  '  why  should  I  not  sleep  in  this 
hall?' 


$1 

'V 


p. 

i 


i  i 


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i:^ 


il     : 


'ill 


^f 


1^4 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


"  *  I  have  my  reasons ;  I  will  make  a  bed  for  you  close  to 
mine.' 

"  I  made  no  objections,  for  I  recollected  that  it  was  Friday, 
and  I  dreaded  the  return  of  my  vision.  He  brought  in  billets 
of  wood,  kindled  a  fire  in  the  great  overhanging  chimney,  and 
then  went  forth  to  prepare  my  supper.  I  drew  a  heavy  chair 
before  the  fire,  and  seating  myself  in  it,  gazed  musingly  round 
upon  the  portraits  of  the  Foulquerres,  and  the  antiquated  armor 
and  weaix)ns,  the  mementoes  of  many  a  bloody  deed.  As  the 
day  declined,  the  smoky  draperies  of  the  hall  gradually  became 
confounded  with  the  dark  ground  of  the  paintings,  and  tlie  lurid 
gleams  of  the  chimney  only  enabled  me  to  see  visages  staring 
at  me  from  the  gathering  darkness.  All  this  was  dismal  in 
the  extreme,  and  somewhat  appalling  ;  perhaps  it  was  the  state 
of  my  conscience  that  rendered  me  peculiarly  sensitive,  and 
prone  to  fearful  imaginings. 

*'  At  length  the  warder  brought  in  my  supper.  It  consisted 
of  a  dish  of  trout,  and  some  crawfish  taken  in  the  fosse  of  the 
castle.  He  procured  also  a  bottle  of  wine,  which  he  informed 
me  was  wine  of  Poitou.  I  requested  him  to  invite  the  her.  it 
to  join  me  in  my  repast ;  but  the  holy  man  sent  back  word  tliat 
he  allowed  himself  nothing  but  roots  and  herbs,  cooked  with 
water.  I  took  my  meal,  therefore,  alone,  but  prolonged  it  as 
much  as  possible,  and  sought  to  cheer  my  drooping  spirits  by 
the  wine  of  Poitou,  which  1  found  very  tolerable. 

"When  8upi)er  was  over,  I  prepared  for  my  evening  d:  "mo- 
tions. I  have  always  been  very  punctual  in  reciting  my  brevi- 
ary ;  it  is  the  prescribed  and  bounden  duty  of  all  chevaliers  of 
the  religious  orders ;  and  I  can  answer  for  it,  is  faithfully  per- 
formed by  those  of  Spain.  I  accordingly  drew  forth  from  my 
pocket  a  small  missal  and  a  rosary,  and  told  the  warder  he 
need  only  designate  to  me  the  way  to  his  chamber,  where  I 
could  come  and  rejoin  him,  when  I  had  finished  my  prayers. 

"  He  accordingly  pointed  out  a  winding  staircase,  opening 
from  the  hall.  'You  will  descend  this  staircase,'  said  he, 
*  until  you  come  to  the  fourth  landing-place,  where  you  enter  & 
vaulted  passage,  terminated  by  an  arcade,  with  a  statue  of  the 
blessed  Jeanne  of  France ;  you  cannot  help  finding  my  room, 
the  door  of  which  I  will  leave  open ;  it  is  the  sixth  door  from 
the  landing-place.  I  advise  you  not  to  remain  in  this  hall  after 
midnight.  Before  that  hour,  you  will  hear  the  hermit  ring  the 
bell,  in  going  the  rounds  of  the  corridors.  Do  not  linger  here 
after  that  signal.' 

"The  warder  retired,  and  I  commenced  my  devotions.     1 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  MALTA. 


135 


continued  at  them  earnestly ;  pausing  from  time  to  time  to  put 
wood  upon  the  fire.  I  d'd  not  dare  to  look  much  around  me, 
for  I  felt  myself  becoming  a  prey  to  fearful  fancies.  Tae  pic- 
tures appeared  to  become  animated.  If  I  regarded  one  atten- 
tively, for  any  length  of  time,  it  seemed  to  move  the  eyes  and 
lips.  Above  all,  the  portraits  of  the  Grand  Seneschal  and  his 
lady,  which  hung  on  each  side  of  the  great  chimney,  the  pro- 
genitors of  the  Foulquerres  of  Tetefoulque,  regarded  me,  I 
thought,  with  angry  and  baleful  eyes :  I  even  fancied  they  ex- 
changed significant  glances  with  each  other.  Just  then  a  terri- 
ble blast  of  wind  shook  all  the  casements,  and,  rushing  through 
the  hall,  made  a  fearful  rattling  and  clashing  among  the  armor. 
To  my  startled  fancy,  it  seemed  something  supernatural. 

"At  length  I  heard  the  bell  of  the  hermit,  and  hastened  to 
quit  the  hall.  Taking  a  solitary  light,  which  stood  on  the  sup- 
per-table, I  descended  the  winding  staircase ;  but  before  I  had 
reached  the  vaulted  passage  leading  to  the  statue  of  the  blessed 
Jeanne  of  France,  a  blast  of  wind  extinguished  my  taper.  I 
hastily  remounted  the  stairs,  to  light  it  again  at  the  chimney ; 
but  judge  of  my  feelings,  when,  on  arriving  at  the  entrance  to 
tlie  armory,  I  beheld  the  Seneschal  and  his  lady,  who  had  de- 
scended from  their  frames,  and  seated  themselves  on  each  side 
of  the  fireplace ! 

"  '  Madam,  my  love,'  said  the  Seneschal,  with  great  formal- 
ity, and  in  antiquated  phrase,  '  what  think  you  of  t'le  presump- 
tion of  this  Castilian,  who  comes  to  harbor  himself  and  make 
wassail  in  this  our  castle,  after  having  slain  our  descendant, 
the  commander,  and  that  without  granting  him  time  for  con- 
fession ? ' 

"  '  Truly,  my  lord,'  answered  the  female  spectre,  with  no  less 
stateliness  of  manner,  and  with  great  aspersity  of  tone  ;  '  truly, 
my  lord,  I  opine  that  this  Castilian  did  a  grievous  wrong  in 
this  encounter;  and  he  should  never  be  suffered  to  depart 
hence,  without  your  throwing  him  the  gauntlet.'  I  paused  to 
hear  no  more,  but  rushed  again  down-stairs,  to  seek  the  cham- 
ber of  the  warder.  It  was  impossible  to  find  it  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  in  the  perturbation  of  my  mind.  After  an  hour  and  a 
half  of  fruitless  search,  and  mortal  horror  and  anxieties,  I  en- 
deavored to  persuade  myself  that  the  day  was  about  to  break, 
and  listened  impatiently  for  the  crowing  of  the  cock ;  for  I 
thought  if  I  could  hear  his  cheerful  note,  I  shosld  be  reassured ; 
catching,  in  the  disordered  state  of  my  nerves,  at  the  popular 
notion  that  ghosts  never  appear  after  the  first  crowing  of  the 
cock. 


■i 


%: 


♦  I 


I 


^^ 


r 


136 


JTOLFSBT'S  LOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


"  At  length  I  rallied  myself,  and  endeavored  to  shake  off  the 
vague  terrors  which  haunted  me.  I  tried  to  persuade  myself 
that  the  two  figures  which  I  had  seemed  to  see  aud  hear,  Lad 
existed  only  in  my  troubled  imagination.  I  still  had  the  end 
of  the  candle  in  ray  hautl,  and  determined  to  make  another 
effort  to  re-light  it,  aud  find  my  way  to  bed  ;  for  I  was  ready  to 
sink  with  fatigue.  I  accordingly  sprang  up  the  staircase, 
three  steps  at  a  time,  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  armory,  and 
peeped  cautiously  in.  The  two  Gothic  figures  were  no  longer 
in  the  chimney  corners,  but  I  neglected  to  notice  whether  they 
had  reascended  to  their  frames.  I  entered,  and  made  desper- 
ately for  the  fireplace,  but  scarce  had  I  advanced  three  strides, 
when  Messire  Foulques  Taillefer  stood  before  me,  in  the  centre 
of  the  hall,  armed  cap-d-pie,  and  standing  in  guard,  with  the 
point  of  his  sword  silently  presented  to  me.  I  would  have 
retreated  to  the  staircase,  but  the  door  of  it  was  occupied  by 
the  phantom  figure  of  an  esquire,  who  rudely  flung  a  gauntlet 
in  my  face.  Driven  to  fury,  I  snatched  down  a  sword  from  the 
wall :  by  chanc*^,  it  was  that  of  the  commander  which  I  had 
placed  there.  I  rushed  upon  my  fantastic  adversary,  aud 
seemed  to  pierce  him  through  and  through;  but  at  the  same 
time  I  felt  as  if  something  pierced  my  heart,  burning  like  a  red- 
hot  iron.     My  blcod  inundated  the  hall,  aud  I  fell  senseless. 


(( 


When  I  recovered  consciousness,  it  was  broad  day,  and  1 
found  myself  in  a  small  chamber,  attended  by  the  warder  and 
the  hermit.  The  former  told  me  that  on  the  previous  night  he 
had  awakened  long  after  the  midnight  hour,  and  perceiving  that 
I  had  not  come  to  his  chamber,  he  had  furnished  himself  with 
a  vase  of  holy  water,  and  set  out  to  seek  me.  He  found  me 
stretched  senseless  on  the  pavement  of  the  armory,  and  bore  me 
to  this  room.  I  spoke  of  my  wound,  and  of  the  quantity  of 
blojd  that  I  had  lost.  He  shook  his  head,  and  knew  nothing 
about  it ;  and  to  my  surprise,  on  examination,  I  found  myself 
perfectly  sound  and  unharmed.  The  wound  and  blood,  there- 
fore, had  been  all  delusion.  Neither  the  warder  nor  the  hermit 
put  any  questions  to  me,  but  advised  me  to  leave  the  castle  as 
800U  as  possible.  I  lost  no  time  in  complying  with  their  counsel, 
and  felt  my  heart  relieved  from  an  oppressive  weight,  as  I  left 
the  gloomy  and  fate-bound  battlementa  of  letefoulques  behind 


me. 


*' I  arri  'ed  at  Eayonne,  on  my  way  to  Spain,  on  the  follow- 


LEGEND   OF  THE  ENGULPHED   CONVENT.        137 

ing  Friday.  At  midnight  I  was  startled  from  my  sleep,  as  I 
had  formerly  been  ;  but  it  was  no  longer  by  the  vision  of  the 
dymg  commander.  It  was  old  Foulques  Taillefer  who  stood 
be  '>re  me,  armed  cap-jl-pie,  and  presenting  the  point  of  his 
sword.  I  made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  the  ipectre  vanished, 
but  I  received  the  same  red-hot  thrust  in  the  heart  which  I  had 
felt  at  the  armory,  and  I  seemed  to  be  bathed  in  blood.  I 
would  have  called  out,  or  have  arisen  from  my  bed  and  (rom 
in  quest  of  succor,  but  I  could  neither  speak  nor  stir.  This 
agony  endured  until  the  crowing  of  the  cock,  when  I  fell  asleep 
again  ;  but  the  next  day  1  was  ill,  and  in  a  most  pitiable  state. 
1  have  contmued  to  be  harassed  by  the  same  vision  every  Fri- 
day night ;  no  acts  of  penitence  and  devotion  have  been  able  to 
relieve  me  from  it ;  and  it  is  only  a  lingering  hope  in  divine 
mercy,  that  sustains  me,  and  enables  me  to  support  so  lament- 
able a  visitation." 


The  Grand  Prior  of  Minorca  wasted  gradually  away  under 
this  constant  remorse  of  conscience,  and  this  horrible  incubus. 
He  died  some  time  after  having  revealed  the  preceding  particu- 
lars of  his  case,  evidently  the  victim  of  a  diseased  imagination. 

The  above  relation  has  been  rendered,  in  many  parts  literally, 
from  the  French  memoir,  in  which  it  is  given  as  a  true  story : 
if  so,  it  is  one  of  those  instances  in  which  truth  is  more  romantic 
than  fiction. 

G.C. 


LEGEND  OF  THE  ENGULPHED  CONVENT. 

BY  GEOFFREY  CRAYON,  GENT. 

At  the  dark  and  melancholy  period  when  Don  Roderick  the 
Goth  and  his  chivalry  were  overthrown  on  the  banks  of  the 
CJnadalete,  and  all  Spain  was  overrun  by  the  Moors,  great  was 
the  devastation  of  churches  and  convents  tliroughout  that  pious 
kingdom.  The  miraculous  fate  of  one  of  those  holy  piles  is 
thus  recorded  in  one  of  the  authentic  legends  of  those  days. 

On  the  summit  of  a  hill,  not  very  distant  from  the  capital 
city  of  Toledo,  stood  an  ancient  convent  and  chapel,  dedicated 
to  the  invocation  of  Saint  Boncdictt,  and  inhabited  by  a  sister- 
hood of  Benedictine  nuns.     This  holy  asylum  was  confined  to 


(i 


i 


-I  'i 


"> 

'i 

? 

^ 

h    i 


138 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


fenales  of  noble  lineage.  The  younger  sisters  of  the  highest 
families  were  here  given  in  religious  marriage  to  their  Saviour, 
in  order  that  the  portions  of  their  elder  sisters  might  be  in- 
creased, and  they  enabled  to  make  suitable  matches  on  earth, 
or  that  the  family  wealth  might  go  undivided  to  elder  brothers, 
and  the  dignity  of  their  ancient  houses  be  protected  from  decay. 
The  convent  was  renowned,  therefore,  for  enshrining  within  its 
walls  a  sisterhood  of  the  purest  blood,  the  most  immaculate 
virtue,  and  most  resplendent  beauty,  of  all  Gothic  Spain. 

When  the  Moors  overrun  the  kingdom,  there  was  nothing 
that  more  excited  their  hostility  than  these  virgin  asylums. 
The  very  sight  of  a  convent-spire  was  sufficient  to  set  their 
Moslum  blood  in  a  foment,  and  they  sacked  it  with  as  fierce  a 
zeal  as  thougi  the  sacking  of  a  nunnery  were  a  sure  passport 
to  Elysium. 

Tidings  of  such  outrages  committed  in  various  parts  of  the 
kingdom  reached  this  noble  sanctuary  and  filled  it  with  dismay. 
The  danger  came  nearer  and  nearer ;  the  infidel  hosts  were 
spreading  all  over  the  country ;  Toledo  itself  was  captured ; 
there  was  no  flying  from  the  convent,  and  no  security  within 
its  walls. 

In  the  midst  of  this  agitation,  the  alarm  was  given  one  day 
that  a  great  band  of  Saracens  were  spurring  across  the  plain. 
In  an  instant  the  whole  convent  was  a  scene  of  confusion. 
Some  of  the  nuns  wrung  their  fair  hands  at  the  windows ; 
others  waved  their  veils  and  uttered  shrieks  from  the  lops  of 
the  towers,  vainly  hoping  to  draw  relief  from  a  country  over- 
run by  the  foe.  The  sight  of  these  innocent  doves  thus  flutter- 
ing about  their  dove-cote,  but  increased  the  zealot  fury  of  the 
whiskered  Moors.  They  thundered  at  the  portal,  and  at  every 
blow  the  ponderous  gates  trembled  on  their  hinges. 

The  nuns  now  crowded  round  the  abl)ess.  They  had  been 
accustomed  to  look  up  to  her  as  all-powerful,  and  they  now  im- 
plored her  protection.  The  mother  abbess  looked  witii  a  rueful 
eye  upon  the  treasures  of  beauty  and  vestal  virtue  exposed  to 
such  imminent  peril.  Alas  !  how  was  she  to  protect  them  from 
the  spoiler!  She  had,  it  is  true,  experienced  many  signal  inter- 
positions of  providence  in  her  individual  favor.  Her  early  days 
had  been  passed  amid  the  temptations  of  a  court,  where  lur 
virtue  had  been  purified  by  repeated  trials,  from  none  of  wliidi 
had  she  escaped  but  by  a  miracle.  But  were  miracles  never  to 
cease?  Could  she  hope  that  the  marvellous  protection  shown 
to  herself  would  be  extended  to  a  whole  sisterhood?  There  was 
no  other  resource.     The  Moors  were  at    the  threshold ;  a  ti  ^Al 


LEGEND  OF  THE  ENGULPEED  CONVENT.       139 

moments  more  and  the  convent  would  be  at  their  mercv.  Sum- 
moning  her  nuns  to  follow  her,  she  hurried  into  the  chapei ;  and 
throwmg  herself  on  her  knees  before  the  imacre  of  the  blessed 
Mary,  ''  Oh,  holy  Lady !  "  exclaimed  she,  "  oh,  mstVre  a^d 
immaculate  of  vngms  !  thou  seest  our  extremity.  The  rava^er 
IS  at  the  gate,  and  there  is  none  on  earth  to  help  us !  Look  down 
with  pity,  and  grant  that  the  earth  may  gape  and  swallow  us 
rather  than  that  our  cloister  vows  should  suffer  violation  '  " 

The  Moors  redoubled  their  assault  upon  the  portals  ;  the  gates 
gave  way,  with  a  tremendous  crash ;  a  savage  yell  of  exultation 
arose  ;  when  of  a  sudden  the  earth  yawned ;  down  sank  the  con- 
vent, with  Its  cloisters,  its  dormitories,  and  all  its  nuns.  The 
chapel  tower  was  the  last  that  sauk,  the  bell  ringing  forth  a  peal 
of  triumph  in  the  very  teeth  of  the  infidels. 


Forty  years  had  passed  and  gone,  since  the  period  of  this 
miracle.  The  subjugation  of  Spain  was  complete.  The  Moors 
lorded  it  over  city  and  country ;  and  such  of  the  Christian  popu- 
lation as  remained,  and  were  permitted  to  exercise  their  religion, 
did  it  in  humble  resignation  to  the  Moslem  sway. 

At  this  time,  a  Christian  cavalier,  of  Cordova,  hearing  that  a 
patriotic  1)and  of  his  countrymen  had  raised  the  standard  of  the 
cross  in  the  mountains  of  the  Asturias,  resolved  to  join  them, 
and  unite  in  breaking  the  yoke  of  bondage.  Secretly  arming 
himself,  and  caparisoning  his  steed,  he  set  forth  from  Cordova^ 
and  pursued  his  course  by  unfrequented  mule-paths,  and  along 
tl'"  dry  channels  made  by  winter  torrents.  His  spirit  burned 
with  indignation,  whenever,  on  commanding  a  view  over  a  long 
sweeping  plain,  he  beheld  the  mosque  swelling  in  the  distance, 
and  the  Arab  horsemen  careering  about,  as  if  the  rightful  lords 
of  the  soil.  Many  a  deep-drawn  sigh,  and  heavy  groan,  also, 
did  the  good  cavalier  utter,  on  passing  the  ruins  of  churches  and 
convents  desolated  by  the  conquerors. 

It  was  on  a  sultry  midsummer  evening,  that  this  wandering 
cavalier,  in  skirting  a  hill  thickly  covered  with  forest,  heard  the 
faint  tones  of  a  vesper  bell  sounding  melodiously  in  the  air,  and 
seeming  to  come  from  the  summit  of  the  hill.  The  cavalier  crossed 
himself  with  wonder,  at  this  unwonted  and  Christian  sound. 
He  supposed  it  to  proceed  from  one  of  those  humble  chapels 
and  hermitag(>s  permitted  to  exist  through  the  indulgence  of  the 
Moslem  conquerors.  Turning  his  steed  up  a  narrow  path  of  the 
forest,  he  sought  this  sanctuary,  in  hopes  of  finding  a  hospitable 


7^ 

' 

\ 

y 

i\ 

^1  I 


140 


WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


h 


f  I ' 


I. 


shelter  for  the  night.  As  he  advanced,  the  trees  threw  a  deep 
gloom  around  him,  and  the  bat  flitted  across  his  path.  The  bell 
ceased  to  toll,  and  all  was  silence. 

Presently  a  choir  of  female  voices  came  stealing  sweetly 
through  the  forest,  chanting  the  evening  service,  to  the  solemn 
accompaniment  of  an  organ.  The  heart  of  the  good  cavalier 
melted  at  the  sound,  for  it  recalled  the  happier  drys  of  his  coun- 
try. Urging  forward  his  weary  steed,  he  at  length  arrived  at  a 
broad  grassy  area,  on  the  summit  of  the  hill,  surrounded  by  tlic 
forest.  Here  the  melodious  voices  rose  in  full  chorus,  like  the 
swelling  of  the  breeze  ;  but  whence  they  came,  he  could  not  tell. 
Sometimes  they  were  before,  sometimes  behind  him ;  sometimes 
in  the  air,  sometimes  as  if  from  within  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 
At  length  they  died  away,  and  a  holy  stillness  settled  on  the 
place. 

The  cavalier  gazed  around  with  bewildered  eye.  There  was 
neither  chapel  nor  convent,  nor  humble  hermitage,  to  be  seen ; 
nothiug  but  a  moss-grown  stone  pinnacle,  rising  out  of  the  cen- 
tre of  the  area,  surmounted  by  a  cross.  The  greensward  around 
appeared  to  have  been  sacred  from  the  tread  of  man  or  beast, 
and  the  surrounding  trees  bent  toward  the  cross,  as  if  in  adora- 
tion. 

The  cavalier  felt  a  sensation  of  holy  awe.  He  alighted  and 
tethered  his  steed  on  the  skirts  of  the  forest,  where  he  might 
crop  the  tender  herbage ;  then  approaching  the  cross,  he  knelt 
and  poured  forth  his  evening  prayers  before  this  relic  of  the 
Christian  days  of  Spain.  His  orisons  being  concluded,  he  laid 
himself  down  at  the  foot  of  the  pinnacle,  and  reclining  his  head 
against  one  of  its  stones,  fell  into  a  deep  sleep. 

About  midnight,  he  was  awakened  by  the  tolling  of  a  bell, 
and  found  liraself  lying  before  the  gate  of  an  ancient  convent. 
A  train  of  nuns  passed  by,  each  bearing  a  taper.  The  cavalier 
rose  and  followed  them  into  the  chapel ;  in  the  centre  of  which 
was  a  bier,  on  which  lay  the  corpse  of  an  aged  nun.  The  organ 
performed  a  solemn  requiem :  the  nuns  joining  in  chorus.  When 
the  funeral  services  was  finished,  a  melodious  voice  chanted, 
'''' Requiescat  in  pace  !"  —  "May  she  rest  in  peace!"  The 
lights  immediately  vanished ;  the  whole  passed  away  as  a  dream ; 
and  the  cavalier  found  himself  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and 
beheld,  by  the  faint  rays  of  the  rising  moon,  his  steed  quietly 
grazing  near  him. 

When  the  day  dawned,  the  cavalier  descended  the  hill,  and 
following  the  course  of  a  small  brook,  came  to  a  cave,  at  the 
entrance  of  which  was  seated  an  ancient  man,  clad  in  hermit's 


LEGEND  OF  THE  BNQULPHED  CONVENT.       141 

garb,  with  rosary  and  cross,  and  a  beard  that  descended  to  hia 
girdle.  He  was  one  of  those  holy  anchorites  permivtad  by  the 
Moors  to  live  unmolested  in  dens  and  caves,  and  humble  hermit' 
«jges,  and  even  to  practise  the  rites  of  their  religion.  The  cava- 
lier checked  his  horse,  and  dismounting,  knelt  and  craved  a 
benediction.  He  then  related  all  that  had  befallen  jim  in  the 
night,  and  besought  the  hermit  to  explain  the  mystei  y. 

"  What  thou  hast  heard  and  seen,  my  sou,"  replied  the  other, 
**  is  but  type  and  shadow  of  the  woes  of  Spain." 

He  then  related  the  foregoing  story  of  the  miraculous  deliver- 
ance of  the  convent. 

"  P'orty  years,"  added  the  holy  man,  "have  elapsed  since 
this  event,  yet  tlic  bells  of  t.hat  sacred  edifice  are  still  Lf^ard, 
from  time  to  time,  sounding  from  under  ground,  together  with 
the  pealing  of  the  orgr.n,  and  the  chanting  of  the  choir.  The 
Moors  avoid  (his  neighborhood,  as  haunted  ground,  and  the 
whole  place,  as  thou  mayest  petocive,  has  become  covered  with 
a  thick  and  lonely  forest." 

The  cavalier  listened  with  wonder  to  the  story  of  this  en- 
gulphed  convent,  as  related  by  the  holy  man.    For  three  days 
and  nights  did  they  keep  vigils  beside  the  cross ;  but  nothing 
more  was  to  be  seen  of  nun  or  convent.    It  is  supposed  that, 
forty  years  having  elapsed,  the  natural  lives  of  all  the  nuns 
were  finished,  and  that  the  cavalier  had  beheld  the  obsequies 
of  the  last  of  the  sisterhood.    Certain  it  is,  that  from  that  time, 
bell,  and  orgao,  and  choral  chant  have  never  more  been  heard. 
The  mouldering  pinnacle,  surmounted  by  the  cross,  still  re- 
mains an  object  of  pious  pilgrimage.    Some  say  that  it  anciently 
3tood  in  front  of  the  convent,  but  others  assert  that  n;  was  the 
spire  of  the  sacred  edifice,  and  that,  when  the  main  body  of  the 
building  sank,  this  remained  above  ground,  like  the  topmast  of 
some  tall  ship  that  has  foundered.     These  pious  believers  main- 
tain, that  the  convent  is  miraculously  preserved  entire  in  the 
centre  of  the  mountain,  where,  if  proper  excavations  were  made, 
it  would  be  found,  with  all  its  treasures,  and  monuments,  and 
shrines,  and  relics,  and  the  tombs  of  its  virgin  nuns. 

Should  any  one  doubt  the  truth  of  this  marvellous  interposi- 
tion of  the  Virgin,  to  protect  the  vestal  purity  of  her  votaries, 
let  him  read  the  excellent  work  entitled  "  EspanaTriumphante," 
writt*^n  by  Padre  Fray  Antonio  de  Sancta  Maria,  a  barefoot 
friar  of  the  Carmelite  order,  and  he  will  doubt  no  longer. 


♦'  ■, 


K* 


)   4  '■ 


n 


142        WOLFEBT'a  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIEU, 


THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN. 

During  the  minority  of  Louis  XV.,  while  the  Duke  of  0; 
leaas  was  Regent  of  France,  a  young  Flemish  nobleman,  the 
Count  Antoine  Joseph  Van  Horn,  made  his  sudden  appearance 
in  Paris,  and  by  his  character,  conduct,  and  the  subsequent  dis- 
asters in  which  he  became  involved,  created  a  great  scnsatiuii 
in  the  high  circles  of  the  proud  aristocracy.  He  was  about 
twenty-two  years  of  age,  tall,  finely  formed,  with  a  pale,  roman- 
tic countenance,  and  eyes  of  remarkable  brilliancy  and  wildness. 

He  was  of  one  of  the  most  ancient  and  highly-esteemed  fami- 
lies of  European  nobility,  being  of  the  line  of  the  Princes  of 
Horn  and  Overique,  sovereign  Counts  of  Hautejierke,  and  he- 
reditary Grand  Veneurs  of  the  empire. 

The  family  took  its  name  from  the  little  town  and  seigneurie 
of  Horn,  in  Brabant ;  and  was  known  as  early  as  the  eleventh 
century  among  the  little  dynasties  of  the  Netherlands,  and  since 
that  time  by  a  long  line  of  illustrious  generations.  At  the 
peace  of  Utrecht,  when  the  Netherlands  passed  under  subjec- 
tion to  Austria,  the  house  of  Van  Horn  came  under  the  domina- 
tion of  the  emperor.  At  the  time  we  treat  of,  two  of  the 
branches  of  this  ancient  house  were  extinct ;  the  third  and  only 
surviving  branch  was  represented  by  the  reigning  prince,  Maxi- 
milian Emanuel  Van  Horn,  twenty-four  years  of  age,  who  re- 
sided in  honorable  and  courtly  style  on  his  hereditary  domains 
at  Baussigny,  in  the  Netherlands,  and  his  brother,  the  Count 
Antoine  Joseph,  who  is  the  subject  of  this  memoir. 

The  ancient  house  of  Van  Horn,  by  the  intermarriage  of  its 
various  branches  with  the  noble  families  of  the  continent,  had 
become  widely  connected  and  interwoven  with  the  high  aris- 
tocracy of  Europe.  The  Count  Antoine,  therefore,  could  claim 
relationship  to  many  of  the  proudest  names  in  Paris.  In  fact, 
he  was  grandson,  by  the  mother's  side,  of  the  Prince  de  Ligne, 
and  even  might  boast  of  affinity  to  the  Regent  (the  Duke  of 
Orleans)  himself.  There  were  circumstances,  however,  con- 
nected with  his  sudden  appearance  in  Paris,  and  his  previous 
story,  that  placed  him  in  what  is  termed  ' '  a  false  position  ;  "  a 
word  of  baleful  significance  in  the  fashionable  vocabulary  of 
France. 

The  young  count  had  been  a  captain  in  the  service  of  Austria, 
but  had  been  cashiered  for  irregular  conduct,  and  for  disrespect 
to  Prince  Louis  of  Baden,  commander-in-chief.     To  check  him 


roman- 


TnS  COUNT  VAN  DORN. 


143 


fn  his  wild  career,  anil  bring  hira  to  sober  reflection,  his  brother 
tlie  prince  caused  him  to  be  arrested  and  sent  to  the  old  castle 
of  Van  Wert,  in  the  domains  of   Horn.     This  was  the  same 
castle  in  which,  in  former  times,  John  Van  Horn,  Stadtholder 
of  Gueldres,  had  imprisoned  his  father;  a  circumstance  which 
has   furnished    Rembrandt  with   the  subject  of  an   admirable 
painting.     The   governor  of   the   castle   was   one  Van  Wert, 
grandson  of  the  famous  Jolm  Van  Wert,  the  hero  of  many  a 
popular  song  and   legend.     It  was  the  intention  of  the  prince 
that  his  brother  should  be  held  in  honorable  durance,  for  his 
object  was  to  sol)er  and  improve,  not  to  punish  and  attlict  him. 
Van  Wert,  however,  was  a  stern,  harsh  man  of  violent  passions. 
He  treated  the  youth  in  a  manner  that  prisoners  and  offenders 
were  treated  in  the  strongholds  of  the  robber  counts  ot  Ger- 
many in  old  times  ;  confined  him  in  a  dungeon  and  inflicted  on 
him  such  hardships  and  indignities  that  the  irritable  tempera- 
ment of  tlie  young  count  was  roused  to  continual  fury,  which 
ended  in  insanity.     For  six  months  was  the  unfortunate  youth 
kept  in  this  liorril)le  state,  without  his  brother  the  prince  being 
informed  of  his  melancholy  condition  or  of  the  cruel  treatment 
to  which  he  was  subjected.     At  length,  one  day,  in  a  paroxysm 
of  frenzy,  the  count  knocked  down  two  of  his  jailers  with  a 
beetle,  escaped  from  the  castle  of  Van  Wert,  and  eluded  all 
pursuit ;  and  after  roving  about  in  a  state  of  distraction,  made 
Ids  way  to  IJaussij^ny  and  appeared  like  a  spectre  before  his 
brother. 

The  prince  was  shocked  at  his  wretched,  emaciated  appear- 
ance and  ids  lamciitable  state  of  mental  alienation.  He  received 
him  with  the  most  compassionate  tenderness  ;  lodged  him  in  his 
own  room,  appointed  three  servants  to  attend  anc'  watch  over 
him  day  and  night,  and  endeavored  by  the  most  soothing  and 
afTectionate  assiduity  to  atone  for  the  past  act  of  rigor  with 
which  he  reproadied  himself.  When  he  learned,  however,  the 
manner  in  which  his  unfortunate  brother  had  been  treated  in 
confinement,  and  the  course  of  brutalities  that  had  led  to  his 
mental  malady,  he  was  roused  to  indignation.  His  first  step 
was  to  cashiei-  Van  Wert  from  his  command.  That  viole  t  man 
set  the  prince  at  defiance,  and  attempted  to  maintain  himself  in 
his  government  and  his  castle  by  instigating  the  peasants,  for 
several  leagues  round,  to  revolt.  His  insurrection  might  have 
been  formidable  against  the  power  of  a  petty  prince ',  but  he 
was  put  under  the  ban  of  the  empire  and  seized  as  a  state 
prisoner.  The  memory  of  his  grandfather,  the  oft-sung  John 
Van  Wert,  alone  saved  him  from  a  gibbet;  but  he  was  ira^ 


144 


WOLFERT'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


prisoned  in  the  strong  tower  of  Horn-op-Zee.  There  ho 
remained  until  he  was  eighty-two  years  of  age,  savage,  violent, 
and  unconquered  to  the  last ;  for  we  are  told  that  he  never 
ceased  flghting  and  thumping  as  long  as  he  could  close  a  tist  or 
wield  a  cudgel. 

In  the  mean  time  a  course  of  kind  and  gentle  treatment  and 
wholesome  regimen,  and,  above  all,  the  tender  and  aflectionatc 
assiduity  of  his  brother,  the  prince,  produced  the  most  salutary 
eflfects  u|X)n  Count  Antoine.  He  gradually  recovered  his  reason  ; 
but  a  degree  of  violence  seemed  always  lurking  at  the  bottom  of 
his  character,  and  he  required  to  be  treated  with  the  greatest 
caution  and  mildness,  for  the  least  contradiction  exasperated 
him. 

In  this  state  of  mental  convalei-  ;ence,  he  began  to  find  the 
supervision  and  restraints  of  brotherly  affection  insupportable ; 
so  he  left  the  Netherlands  furtively,  and  repaired  to  Paris, 
whither,  in  fact,  it  is  said  he  was  called  by  motives  of  interest, 
to  make  arrangements  concerning  a  valuable  estate  which  he 
inherited  from  his  relative,  the  Princess  d'Epinay. 

On  his  arrival  in  Paris,  he  called  upon  the  Marquis  of  Cr^'qui, 
and  other  of  the  high  nobility  with  whom  he  was  connected. 
He  was  received  with  great  courtesy ;  but,  as  he  brought  no 
letters  from  his  elder  brother,  the  prince,  and  as  various  cir- 
cumstances of  his  previous  history  had  transpired,  they  did  not 
receive  him  into  tlieir  families,  nor  introduce  him  to  their  ladies. 
Still  they  feted  him  in  bachelor  style,  gave  him  gay  and  elegant 
suppers  at  their  separate  apartments,  and  took  him  to  their 
boxes  at  the  theatres.  He  was  often  noticed,  too,  at  the  doors 
of  the  most  fashionable  churches,  taking  his  stand  among  the 
young  men  of  fashion ;  and  at  such  times,  his  tall,  elegant 
figure,  his  pale  but  handsome  countenance,  and  his  flashing 
eyes,  distinguished  him  from  among  the  crowd ;  and  the  ladies 
declared  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  support  his  ardent 
gaze. 

The  Count  did  not  afflict  himself  much  at  his  limited  circu- 
lation in  the  fastidious  circles  of  the  high  aristocracy.  He 
relished  society  of  a  wilder  and  less  ceremonious  cast ;  and 
meeting  with  loose  companions  to  his  taste,  soon  ran  into  all 
the  excesses  of  the  capital,  i  i  that  most  licentious  period.  It 
is  said  that,  in  the  course  of  his  wihl  career,  he  had  an  intrigue 
with  a  lady  of  quality:  a  favorite  of  the  Regent ;  that  he  was 
surprised  by  that  prince  in  one  of  his  interviews  ;  that  sharp 
words  passed  between  them  ;  and  that  the  jealousy  and  yen- 
«^emnce  thus  awakened,  ended  only  with  his  life. 


THE  COUNT  VAN  HORN. 


146 


'here  b« 
,  violont, 
lip  never 
'.  a  fmt  or 

nent  and 
ectionate 
,  salutary 
3  reason ; 
)ottom  of 
greatest 
isperateil 

find  the 
[)ortal)le ; 
to  Paris, 

interest, 
which  he 

f  Cr^'qui, 
jnnected. 
ought  no 
rious  cir- 
y  did  not 
(ir  ladies, 
d  elegant 

to  their 
he  doors 
Qong  the 
,  elegant 

flashing 
le  ladies 
8  ardent 

3d  eircu- 

cy.     He 

[ist ;  and 

into  all 

iod.     It 

intrigue 

he  was 

at  sharp 

nd  ven- 


About  tb'iS  time,  the  famous  Mississippi  scheme  of  La'*  was 
at  its  height,  or  rather  it  began  to  threaten  that  disastrous 
catastrophe  which  convulsed  the  whole  financial  world.  Every 
effort  was  making  to  keep  the  bubble  inflated.  The  ^  agrant 
population  of  France  was  swept  off  from  the  streets  at  night, 
and  conveyed  to  Havre  de  Grace,  to  be  shipped  to  the  pro- 
jected colonies  ;  even  laboring  people  and  mechanics  wore  thus 
crimped  and  spirited  away.  As  Count  Antoine  was  in  the 
habit  of  sallying  forth  at  night,  in  disguise,  in  pursuit  of  his 
pleasures,  he  came  near  being  carried  off  by  a  gang  of  crimps ; 
it  seemed,  in  fact,  as  if  they  had  been  lying  in  wait  for  him,  as 
he  had  experienced  very  rough  treatment  at  their  hands.  Com- 
plaint was  made  of  his  case  by  his  relation,  the  Marquis  de 
Cr6qui,  who  took  much  interest  in  the  youth ;  but  the  Marquis 
received  mysterious  intimations  not  to  interfere  in  the  matter, 
but  to  advise  the  Count  to  quit  Paris  immediately:  "If  he 
lingers,  he  is  lost !  "  This  has  been  cited  as  a  proof  that  ven- 
geance was  dogging  at  the  heels  of  the  unfortunate  youth,  and 
only  watching  for  an  opportunity  to  destroy  him. 

Such  opportunity  occurred  but  too  soon.  Among  the  loose 
companions  with  whom  the  Count  had  become  intimate,  were 
two  who  lodged  in  the  same  hotel  with  him.  One  was  a  youth 
only  twenty  years  of  age,  who  passed  himself  off  as  the  Cheva- 
lier d'Etampes,  but  whose  real  name  was  Lestang,  the  prodigal 
son  of  a  Flemish  banker.  The  other,  named  Laurent  de  Mille, 
a  Fiedmontese,  was  a  cashiered  captain,  and  at  the  time  an 
esquire  in  the  service  of  the  dissolute  Princess  de  Carignan, 
who  kept  gambling-tables  in  her  palace.  It  is  probable  that 
gambling  propensities  had  driven  these  young  men  together, 
and  that  their  losses  had  brought  them  to  desperate  measures : 
certain  it  is,  that  all  Paris  was  suddenly  astounded  by  a  murder 
which  they  were  said  to  have  committed.  What  made  the  crime 
more  startling,  was,  that  it  seemed  connected  with  the  great 
Mississippi  scheme,  at  that  time  the  fruitful  source  of  all  kinds 
of  panics  and  agitations.  A  Jew,  a  stock-broker,  who  dealt 
largely  in  shares  of  the  bank  of  Law,  founded  on  the  Mis- 
sissippi scheme,  was  the  victim.  The  story  of  nis  death  is 
variously  related.  The  darkest  account  states,  that  the  Jew 
was  decoyed  by  these  young  men  into  an  ofc.  cure  tavern,  under 
pretext  of  negotiating  with  him  for  bank  shares  to  the  amount 
of  one  hundred  thousand  crowns,  which  he  had  with  him  in  his 
pocket-book.  Lestang  kept  watch  upon  the  stairs.  The  Count 
and  De  Mille  entered  with  the  Jew  into  a  chamber.  In  a  little 
while  there  were  heard  cries  and  struggles  from  within.    A 


146         WOLFERT'8  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


waiter  passing  by  the  room,  looked  in,  and  seeing  the  Jew 
weltering  in  his  blood,  shut  the  door  again,  double-locked  it, 
and  alarmed  the  house.  Lestang  rushed  down-stairs,  made  his 
way  to  the  hotel,  secured  his  most  portable  effects,  and  fled  the 
country.  The  Count  and  De  Mille  endeavored  to  escape  by  the 
window,  but  were  both  taken,  and  conducted  to  prison. 

A  circumstance  which  occurs  in  this  part  of  the  Count's  story, 
seems  to  point  him  out  as  a  fated  man.  His  mother,  and  his 
brother,  the  Prince  Van  Horn,  had  received  intelligence  some 
time  before  at  Baussigny,  of  the  dissolute  life  the  Count  was 
leading  at  Paris,  and  of  his  losses  at  play.  They  despatched  a 
gentleman  of  the  prince's  household  to  Paris,  to  pay  the  debts 
of  the  Count,  and  persuade  him  to  return  to  Flanders ;  or,  if  he 
should  refuse,  to  obtain  un  order  from  the  Regent  for  him  to 
quit  the  capital.  Unfortunately  the  gentleman  did  not  arrive  at 
Paris  until  the  day  after  the  murder. 

The  news  of  the  Count's  arrest  and  imprisonment  on  a  charge 
of  murder,  caused  a  violent  sensation  among  the  high  aristoc- 
racy. All  those  connected  with  him,  who  had  treated  him 
hitherto  with  indifference,  found  their  dignity  deeply  involved 
in  the  question  of  his  guilt  or  innocence.  A  general  convoca- 
tion was  held  at  the  hotel  of  the  Marquis  de  Cr6qui.,  of  all  the 
relatives  and  allies  of  the  house  of  Horn.  It  was  an  assem- 
blage of  the  most  proud  and  aristocratic  personages  of  Paris. 
Inquiries  were  made  into  the  circumstances  of  the  affair.  It 
was  ascertained,  beyond  a  doubt,  that  the  Jew  was  dead,  and 
that  he  had  been  killed  by  several  stabs  of  a  ix)niard.  In 
escaping  by  the  window,  it  was  said  that  the  Count  had  fallen, 
and  be'3n  immediately  taken  ;  but  that  De  Mille  had  fled  through 
the  streets,  pursued  by  the  populace,  and  had  been  arrested  at 
some  distance  from  the  scene  of  the  murder ;  that  the  Count 
had  declared  himself  innocent  of  the  death  of  the  Jew,  and  that 
he  had  risked  his  own  life  in  endeavoring  to  protect  him ;  but 
that  Da  Mille,  on  being  brought  back  to  the  tavern,  confessed 
to  a  plot  to  murder  the  broker,  and  rob  him  of  his  pocket-book, 
and  inculpated  the  Count  in  the  crime. 

Another  version  of  the  story  was,  that  the  Count  Van  Horn 
had  deposited  with  the  broker,  bank  shares  to  the  amount  of 
eighty-eight  thousand  livres ;  that  he  had  sought  him  in  this 
tavern,  which  was  one  of  his  resorts,  and  had  demanded  the 
shares ;  that  the  Jew  had  denied  the  deposit ;  that  a  quarrel 
bad  ensued,  in  the  course  of  which  the  Jew  struck  the  Count 
in  the  face ;  that  the  letter,  transported  with  rage,  had  snatched 
up  a  knife  from  a  table^  and  wounded  the  Jew  in  the  shoulder ; 


the  Jew 

)cked  it, 

made  his 

fled  the 

)e  by  the 

i's  story, 
and  his 
ice  some 
>unt  was 
latched  a 
;he  debts 
or,  if  he 
r  him  to 
arrive  at 

a  charge 
aristoc- 
ited  him 
involved 
convoca- 
f  all  the 
a  assem- 
)f  Paris, 
lair.  It 
ead,  and 
ard.  In 
i  fallen, 
through 
rested  at 
le  Count 
and  that 
lim ;  but 
onfessed 
;et-book, 

%n  Horn 
lount  of 
1  in  this 
ided  the 
.  quarrel 
e  Count 
snatched 
loulder; 


THE  COUNT  VAN  BORN. 


147 


and  that  thereuiJon  De  Mille,  who  was  present,  and  who  had 
likewise  been  defrauded  by  the  broker,  fell  on  him,  and  de- 
spatched  him  with  blows  of  a  poniard,  and  seized  upon  his 
pocket-book ;  that  he  had  offered  to  divide  the  contents  of 
the  latter  with  the  Count,  pro  rata,  of  what  the  usurer  had 
defrauded  them  ;  that  the  latter  had  refused  the  proposition  with 
disdain,  nnd  that,  at  a  noise  of  persons  approaching,  both  had 
attempted  to  escape  from  the  premises,  but  had  been  taken. 

Regard  the  story  in  any  way  they  might,  appearances  were 
terribly  aj^ainst  the  Count,  and  the  noble  assemblage  was  in 
great  consternation.  What  was  to  be  done  to  ward  off  so  foul 
a  disgrace  and  to  save  their  illustrious  escutcheons  from  this 
murderous  stain  of  blood?  Their  first  attempt  was  to  prevent 
the  affair  from  going  to  trial,  and  their  relative  from  being 
iragged  before  a  criminal  tribunal,  on  so  horrible  and  degrad° 
lUg  a  charge.  They  applied,  therefore,  to  the  Regent,  to  inter- 
vene his  power ;  to  treat  the  Count  as  having  acted  under  an 
access  of  his  mental  malady;  and  to  shut  him  up  in  a  mad- 
house. The  Regent  was  deaf  to  their  solicitations.  He  re- 
plied, coldly,  that  if  the  Count  was  a  madman,  one  could  not 
get  rid  too  quickly  of  madmen  who  were  furious  in  their  insanity. 
The  crime  was  too  public  and  atrocious  to  be  hushed  up  or 
slurred  over ;  justice  must  take  its  course. 

Seeing  there  was  no  avoiding  the  humiliating  scene  of  a 
public  trial,  the  noble  relatives  of  the  Count  endeavored  to  pre- 
dispose the  minds  of  the  magistrates  before  whom  he  was  to 
be  arraigned.  They  accordingly  made  urgent  and  eloquent 
representations  of  the  high  descent,  and  noble  and  powerful 
connections  of  *he  Count;  set  forth  the  circumstances  of  his 
early  history ;  his  lucn^al  malady ;  the  nervous  irritability  to 
which  he  was  subject,  and  his  extreme  sensitiveness  to  insult 
or  contradiction.  By  these  means  they  sought  to  prepare  the 
judges  to  interpret  every  thing  in  favor  of  the  Count,  and, 
even  if  it  should  prove  that  he  had  inflicted  the  mortal  blow 
on  the  usurer,  to  attribute  it  to  access  of  insanity,  provoked 
by  insult. 

To  give  full  effect  to  these  representations,  the  noble  con- 
clave determined  to  bring  upon  the  judges  the  dazzling  rays 
of  the  whole  assembled  aristocracy.  Accordingly,  on  the  day 
that  the  trial  took  place,  the  relations  of  the  Count,  to  th« 
number  of  fifty-seven  persons,  of  both  sexes,  and  of  the  high- 
est riisif .  repaired  in  a  body  to  the  Palace  of  Justice,  and  took 
their  stations  in  a  long  corridor  which  led  to  the  court-room. 
Here,  as  the  judges  entered,  they  bad  to  pass  in  review  this 


i 


i 


I   ' 


'  i 


148 


WOLFEET'S  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


array  of  lofty  and  noble  personages,  who  saluted  them  mourn- 
fully and  significantly,  as  they  passed.  Any  one  conversant 
with  the  stately  pride  and  jealous  dignity  of  the  French 
n' ' '.  3e  of  that  day,  may  imagine  the  extreme  state  of  sensi- 
tivencbs  that  produced  this  self-abasement.  It  was  confidently 
presumed,  however,  by  the  noble  suppliants,  that  having  once 
brought  themselves  to  this  measure,  their  influence  over  the 
tribunal  would  be  irresistible.  There  was  one  lady  present., 
however,  Madame  de  Beauffremont,  who  was  affected  with 
the  Scottish  gift  of  second  sight,  and  related  such  dismal  and 
sinister  apparitions  as  passing  before  her  eyes,  that  many  of 
her  female  companions  were  filled  with  doleful  presentiments. 

Unfortunately  for  the  Count,  there  was  another  interest  at 
work,  more  powerful  even  than  the  high  aristocracy.  The  all- 
potent  Abb^  Dubois,  the  grand  favorite  and  bosom  counsellor 
of  the  Regent,  was  deeply  interested  in  the  scheme  of  Law,  and 
the  prosperity  of  his  bank,  and  of  course  in  the  security  of  the 
stock-brokei's.  Indeed,  the  Regent  himself  is  said  to  have  dipped 
deep  in  the  Mississippi  scheme.  Dubois  and  Law,  therefore, 
exerted  their  influence  to  the  utmost  to  have  the  tragic  affair 
pushed  to  the  extremity  of  the  law,  and  the  murder  of  the  broker 
punished  in  the  most  signal  and  appalling  manner.  Certain  it 
is,  the  trial  was  neither  long  nor  intricate.  The  Count  and  his 
fellow  prisoner  were  equally  inculpated  in  the  crime ;  and  both 
were  condemned  to  a  death  the  most  horrible  and  ignominious 
—  to  be  broken  alive  on  the  wheel ! 

As  soon  as  the  sentence  of  the  court  was  made  public,  all  the 
nobility,  in  any  degree  related  to  the  house  of  Van  Horn,  went 
into  mourning.  Another  grand  aristocratical  assemblage  was 
held,  and  a  petition  to  the  Regent,  on  behalf  of  the  Count,  was 
drawn  out  and  left  with  the  Marquis  de  Cr^qui  for  signature. 
This  petition  set  forth  the  previous  insanity  of  the  Count,  and 
showed  that  it  was  a  hereditary  malady  of  his  family.  It  stated 
various  circumstances  in  mitigation  of  his  offence,  and  implored 
that  his  sentence  might  be  commuted  to  perpetual  imprisonment. 

Upward  of  fifty  names  of  the  highest  nobility,  beginning  with 
the  Prince  de  Ligne,  and  including  cardinals,  archbishops, 
dukes,  marquises,  etc.,  together  with  ladies  of  equal  rank,  were 
signed  to  this  petition.  By  one  of  the  caprices  of  human  pride 
and  vanity,  it  became  an  object  of  ambition  to  get  enrolled 
among  the  illustrious  suppliants  ;  a  kind  of  testimonial  of  noble 
blood,  to  prove  relationship  to  a  murderer !  The  Marquis  de 
^r^qui  was  absolutely  b^'sieged  by  appHcanto  to  sign,  and  had 
to  refer  their  claims  to  this  singular  honor,  to  the  Prince  de 


THE  COUNT  VAN  EORIf. 


149 


all  the 
rn,  went 


Ligne,  the  grandfather  of  the  Count.  Many  who  were  excluded, 
were  highly  incensed,  and  numerous  feuds  took  place.  Nay, 
the  affronts  thus  given  to  the  morbid  pride  of  some  aristocrati- 
cal  families,  passed  from  generation  to  generation ;  for,  fifty 
years  afterward,  the  Duchess  of  Mazarin  complained  of  a  slight 
vliich  her  father  had  received  from  the  Marquis  de  Cr6qui; 
viiich  proved  to  be  something  connected  with  the  signature  of 
.his  petition. 

This  important  document  being  completed,  the  illustrious  body 
jf  petitioners,  male  and  female,  on  Saturday  evening,  the  eve  of 
Palm  Sunday,  repaired  to  the  Palais  Royal,  the  residence  of  the 
Regent,  and  were  ushered,  with  great  ceremony  but  profound 
silence,  into  his  hall  of  council.  They  had  appointed  four  of 
their  number  as  deputies,  to  present  the  petition,  viz. :  the  Car- 
dinal de  Rohan,  the  Duke  de  Havr6,  the  Prince  de  Ligne,  and 
the  Marquis  de  Cr^qul.  After  a  little  while,  the  deputies  were 
summoned  to  the  cabinet  of  the  Regent.  They  entered,  leaving 
the  assembled  petitioners  in  a  state  of  the  greatest  anxiety.  As 
time  slowly  wore  away,  and  the  evening  advanced,  the  gloom  of 
the  company  increased.  Several  of  the  ladies  prayed  devoutly  ; 
the  good  Princess  of  Armagnac  told  her  beads. 

The  petition  was  received  by  the  Regent  with  a  most  unpropi- 
tious  aspect.  "  In  asking  the  pardon  of  the  criminal,"  said  he, 
"  you  display  more  zeal  for  the  house  of  Van  Horn,  than  for 
the  service  of  the  king."  The  noble  deputies  enforced  the  peti- 
tion by  every  argument  in  their  power.  They  supplicated  the 
Regent  to  consider  that  the  infamous  punishment  in  question 
would  reach  not  merely  the  person  of  the  condemned,  not  merely 
the  house  of  Van  Horn,  but  also  the  genealogies  of  princely  and 
illustrious  families,  in  whose  armorial  bearings  might  be  found 
quarterings  of  this  dishonored  name. 

"  Gentlemen,"  replied  the  Regent,  "  it  appears  to  me  the  dis- 
grace consists  in  the  crime,  rather  than  in  the  punishment." 

The  Prince  de  Ligne  spoke  with  warmth :  "I  have  in  my 
genealogical  standard,"  said  he,  "four  escutcheons  of  Van 
Horn,  and  of  course  have  four  ancestors  of  that  house.  I  must 
have  them  erased  and  effaced,  and  there  would  be  so  many 
blank  spaces,  like  holes,  in  my  heraldic  ensigns.  There  is  not 
a  sovereign  family  which  would  not  suffer,  through  the  rigor 
of  your  Royal  Highness ;  nay,  all  the  world  knows,  that  in  the 
thirty-two  quarterings  of  Madame,  your  mother,  there  is  an 
escutcheon  of  Van  Horn." 

"  Very  well,"  replied  the  Regent,  "  I  will  share  the  disgrace 
with  you,  gentlemen." 


I'i 


150 


WOLFERTS  ROOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


I' 


i' 


Seeing  that  a  pardon  could  not  be  obtained,  the  Cardinal  de 
Rohan  and  the  Marquis  de  Cr^qui  left  the  cabinet ;  but  the 
Prince  de  Ligne  and  the  Duke  de  Havr^  remained  behind.  The 
honor  of  their  houses,  more  than  the  life  of  the  unhappy  Count, 
was  the  great  object  of  their  solicitude.  They  now  endeavored 
to  obtain  a  minor  grace.  They  represented  that  in  the  Nether- 
lands, and  in  Germany,  there*  was  an  importau*.  difference  in  the 
public  mind  as  to  the  mode  of  inflicting  the  punishment  of  death 
upon  persons  of  quality.  That  decapitation  had  no  influence  on 
the  fortunes  of  the  family  of  the  executed,  bi  t  that  the  punish- 
ment of  the  wheel  was  such  an  infamy,  that  the  uncles,  aunts, 
brothers,  and  sisters  of  the  criminal,  and  his  whole  family,  foi 
three  succeeding  generations,  were  axcluded  from  all  noble 
chapters,  princely  abbeys,  sovereign  bishoprics,  and  even  Teu- 
tonic commanderies  of  the  Order  of  Malta.  They  showed  how 
this  would  operate  immediately  upon  the  fortunes  of  a  sister  of 
the  Count,  who  was  on  the  point  of  being  received  as  a  canoness 
into  one  of  the  noble  chapters. 

While  this  scene  was  going  on  in  the  cabinet  of  the  Regent, 
the  illustrious  assemblage  of  petitioners  remained  in  tlie  hall  of 
council,  in  the  most  gloomy  state  of  suspense.  Tlie  re-entrance 
from  the  cabinet  of  the  Cardinal  de  Rohan  and  the  Marquis  de 
Cr^qui,  with  pale,  downcast  countenances,  had  struck  a  ehiil 
into  every  heart.  Still  they  lingered  until  near  midnight,  to 
learn  the  result  of  the  after  application.  At  length  the  cabi- 
net conference  was  at  an  end.  The  Regent  came  forth,  and 
saluted  the  high  personages  of  the  assemblage  in  a  courtly 
manner.  One  old  lady  of  quality,  Madame  de  Guyon,  whom 
he  had  known  in  his  infancy,  he  kissed  on  the  cheek,  calling  her 
his  "good  aunt."  He  made  a  most  ceremonious  salutation  to 
the  stately  Marchioness  de  Cr^qui,  telling  h"'"  he  was  charmed 
to  see  her  at  the  Palais  Royal ;  "  a  compliment  very  ill-timed," 
said  the  Marchioness,  "  considering  the  circumstance  which 
brought  me  there."  He  then  conducted  the  ladies  to  the  door 
of  the  second  saloon,  and  there  dismissed  them,  with  the  most 
ceremonious  politeness. 

The  application  of  the  Prince  de  Ligne  and  the  Duke  de 
Havr^,  for  a  change  of  the  mode  of  punishment,  had,  after 
much  difficulty,  been  successful.  The  Regent  had  promised 
solemnly  to  send  a  letter  of  commutation  to  the  attorney-gen- 
eral on  Holy  Monday,  the  25th  of  March,  at  five  o'clock  In  the 
morning.  According  to  the  same  promise,  a  scaffold  would  be 
arranged  in  the  cloister  of  the  Conciergerie,  or  prison,  where 
the  Count  would  be  beheaded  oa  the  same  moruing,  imme- 


THE  COUNT  VAN  HORlf, 


161 


diately  after  having  received  absolution.  This  n^itigation  ot 
the  form  of  punishment  gave  but  little  consolation  to  the  great 
body  of  petitioners,  who  had  been  anxious  for  the  pardon  of  the 
youth :  it  was  looked  upon  as  ali-iraportant,  however,  by  the 
Prince  de  L\gne,  who,  as  has  been  before  observed,  was  ex- 
quisitely alive  to  the  dignity  of  his  family. 

The  Bishop  of  Bayeux  and  the  Marquis  de  Cr^qui  visited  the 
unfortunate  youth  in  prison.  He  had  just  received  the  com- 
munion in  the  chapel  of  the  Conciergerie,  and  was  kueelinw 
before  the  altar,  listening  to  a  mass  for  the  dead,  which  was 
performed  at  his  request.  He  protested  his  innocence  of  any 
intention  to  murder  the  Jew,  but  did  not  deign  to  allude  to  the 
accusation  of  robbery.  He  made  the  bishop  and  the  Marquis 
promise  to  see  his  brother  the  prince,  and  inform  hun  of  this 
his  dying  asaeveration. 

Two  other  of  his  relations,  the  Prince  Rebecq-Montmorency 
and  the  Marshal  Van  Isenghien,  visited  him  secretly,  and  of- 
fered him  poison,  as  a  means  of  evading  the  disgrace  of  a  public 
execution.  On  his  refusing  to  take  it,  they  left  him  with  high 
indignation.  "  Miserable  man  !  "  said  they,  "  you  are  fit  only 
to  perish  by  the  hand  of  the  executioner !  " 

The  Marquis  de  Cr6qui  sought  the  executioner  of  Paris,  to 
bespeak  an  easy  and  decent  death  for  the  unfortunate  youth. 
"  Do  not  make  him  suffer,"  said  he ;  "  uncover  no  part  of  him 
but  the  nock  ;  and  have  his  body  placed  in  a  coffln,  before  you 
deliver  it  to  his  family."  The  executioner  promised  all  that  was 
requestod,  but  declined  a  rouleau  of  a  hundred  louis-d'ors  which 
the  Marquis  would  have  put  into  his  hand.  "  I  am  paid  by  the 
king  for  fulfilling  my  office,"  said  he;  and  added  that  he  had 
already  refused  a  like  sum,  offered  by  another  relation  of  the 
Marquis. 

The  Marquis  de  Cr6qui  returned  home  in  a  state  of  deep  afflic- 
tion. There  he  found  a  letter  from  the  Duke  de  St.  Simon,  the 
familiar  friend  of  the  Regent,  repeating  the  promise  of  that 
prince,  that  the  punishment  of  the  wheel  should  be  commuted 
to  decapitation. 

"  Imagine,"  says  the  Marchioness  de  Cr^qui,  who  in  her 
memoirs  gives  a  detailed  aeooi'ni  of  this  affair,  "imagine  what 
we  experienced,  and  what  was  our  astonishment,  our  grief,  and 
indignation,  when,  on  Tuesday,  the  .^6th  of  March,  an  hour 
after  midday,  word  was  brought  us  that  the  Count  Van  Horn 
had  been  exposed  on  the  wheel,  in  the  Place  de  Grfive,  since 
half-past  six  in  the  morning,  on  the  same  scaffold  with  the 
Piedmontese  de  Mille,  and  that  be  had  been  tortured  jirevious 
to  execution  1  " 


i  i 


■;   i 


u 


it 


152 


WOLFERTS  BOOST  AND  MISCELLANIES. 


One  more  scene  of  aristocratic  pride  closed  this  tragic  story. 
The  Marquis  de  Crequi,  on  receiving  this  astounding  news,  im- 
mediately arrayed  himself  in  the  unifoTm  of  a  general  officer, 
with  his  cordon  of  nobility  on  the  coat.  He  ordered  six  valets 
to  attend  him  in  grand  livery,  and  two  of  his  carriages,  each 
with  six  horses,  to  be  brought  forth.  In  this  sumptuous  state, 
he  set  off  for  the  Place  de  Gr^ve,  where  iie  had  been  preceded 
by  the  Princes  de  Ligne,  de  Rohan,  de  Croiiy,  and  the  Duke  de 
Havr^. 

The  Count  Van  Horn  was  already  dead,  and  it  was  believed 
that  the  executioner  had  had  the  charity  to  give  him  the  coup 
de  grace,  or  "death-blow,"  at  eight  o'clock  in  the  morning.  At 
five  o'clock  in  the  evening,  when  the  Judge  Commissary  left 
his  post  at  the  Hotel  de  Ville,  these  noblemen,  with  their  own 
hands,  aided  to  detach  the  mutilated  remains  of  their  relation ; 
the  Marquis  de  Crequi  placed  them  in  one  of  his  carriages,  and 
bore  them  off  to  his  hotel,  to  recei^'e  the  last  sad  obsequies. 

The  conduct  of  the  Regent  in  this  affair  excited  general 
indignation.  His  needless  severity  was  attributed  by  some  to 
vindictive  jealousy ;  by  others  to  the  persevering  machinations 
of  Law.  The  house  of  Van  Horn,  and  the  high  nobility  of 
Flanders  and  Germany,  considered  themselves  flagrantly  out- 
raged :  many  schemes  of  vengeance  were  talked  of,  and  a  hatred 
engendered  against  the  Regent,  that  followed  him  through  life, 
and  was  wreaked  with  bitterness  upon  his  memory  after  his 
death. 

The  following  letter  is  said  to  have  been  written  to  the  Regent 
by  the  Prince  Van  Horn,  to  whom  the  former  had  adjudged  the 
confiscated  effects  of  the  Count : 

*'Ido  not  complain,  Sir,  of  the  death  of  my  brother,  but  I 
complain  that  your  Royal  Highness  has  violated  in  his  person 
the  rights  of  the  kingdom,  the  nobility,  anc  the  nation.  I  thank 
you  for  the  confiscation  of  his  effects ;  but  1  should  think  my- 
self as  much  disgraced  as  he,  should  I  accept  any  favor  at  your 
bands.  /  hope  that  God  and  the  King  viay  render  to  you  as 
strict  justice  as  you  have  rendered  to  my  unfortunate  brother," 


;ic  story, 
news,  im- 
al  officer, 
jix  valets 
ges,  each 
)us  state, 
preceded 
Duke  de 

believed 
the  coup 
aing.  At 
isary  left 
heir  own 
relation ; 
iges,  and 
uies. 
general 
some  to 
hiuations 
>bility  of 
.ntly  out- 
[  a  hatred 
aigh  life, 
after  his 

e  Regent 
Jged  the 


er,  but  I 
s  person 
I  thank 
link  my- 
r  at  your 
9  you  as 
.her," 


